


The Warrior's Test

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Mythology, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An ode to Sandor’s penis, Angst, Courtship of a different kind, F/M, He'll only have to fight a bear, How Hard Can It Be?, Hubbahubba, Keeping your dick in your pants, Mythology - Freeform, Sandor isn't quite himself, Slow Burn, The Warrior's Test, Whootwhoot, Wooing, a maiden, to the penis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-10-13 10:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17486657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi AU / SanSan:  When the Warrior lays his eyes on Sansa Stark he is filled with lust for the young maiden. But only how to have her? In order to seduce the girl he must first find a human form, but that's only half of his problems.Fashioned after old greek myths, this story should be an easy courtship story in which Sandor is not quite himself some of the time.





	1. To Pluck a Maiden Fair

**Author's Note:**

> So I've promised myself to do a new story as long as I update others. So having devoted some time to the old ones, I've decided to put this little one up. This little fic is really just out of my head with no major review or editing. This makes it fun for me too.
> 
> Also, this story is really an ode to Sandor's huge dong. I'll give the warning now for perpetuitous Sandor penis descriptions and references. Somehow, in my mind anyway, this is going to be funny and a study in how to describe the same penis many times. :-)

##  The Warrior

 

The Warrior looked down on Westeros and couldn’t be more pleased. The war between the lords of the North and West was progressing, his chapel in the Sept was the most visited as of late and there was violence -- sweet and pure. There was a certain joy to be had in wandering the battle fields, circling the camps and peaking in on the men who would worship him as a diety. It was good to be back, great to be worshiped as the god he was. It was during these moments, as he wondered amongst his men, when his eye was caught by one of the most beautiful maidens he had ever seen. 

 

He was in the northern stronghold of Winterfell when he saw her, red hair flowing in the wind, her skin as white as snow. It was an immediate attraction, as if a force stronger than any god had pulled him to her. The Warrior watched her intently while she went about her daily routine. She was no washer girl or cook, nor was she seamstress or a handmaid. This young woman was something more, the daughter of the great lord of Winterfell. The Warrior was so filled with lust that it took all of the self control he had not to assume a human form and to take her, press her across her soft feather bed and force himself upon her until she couldn’t take it anymore.

 

The reason he had this self-control was not because the Warrior was a good god or one that followed the rules. It was because he knew the consequences of plucking a fair maiden from his sister’s flock, knew it would have repercussions. It had been a thousand years past since the Warrior had stolen from his sister, the Maiden. He had mercilessly raped a maiden that had caught his eye, taken her by the well where she had been gathering water. His actions had so enraged his sister that she went to the Mother and the Father. She pleaded and begged them through her tears to punish her brother for what he had done. The Warrior balled his fists when he thought of what their parents had done in response, they had ordered him to put a stop to all the wars, placing a moratorium on them until only just recently. It had been a hollow existence bought with a day of earthly pleasure. It had killed him, scattered his followers to the seven winds -- he had been almost forgotten.  

 

Turning back to the beautiful young daughter of the lord of Winterfell the Warrior could not easily contain his passion. His sister had done well in making her, better than well -- she had truly outdone herself. For he had never seen a maiden with eyes so blue and legs so long. The girl was firm yet rounded, tall and dainty. She was everything the Warrior could want, everything he needed. 

 

“But how to take her without my sister knowing?” He asked himself as he watched the young lady Stark ready herself for bed. She was uncomfortable, could sense someone or something was there -- but couldn’t quite figure it out. She even turned her back to where he was watching her from, hiding her breasts and the apex of her thighs from his view. 

 

The Warrior smirked at her coyness and brought his mind back to how he would have her. It was frustrating to know about human nature, to understand man as he did and to have no idea how to circumvent his sister. It was only long after the fire in the maiden’s room had gone dark and she had slowly fallen asleep in her bed that the Warrior found the answer. It was a bold solution, one befitting of him. “I’ll simply go to her and ask.”

 

A smile crept across the Warrior’s face as he made his way to the Maiden’s workshop. His sister took pride in creating each of her flock individually, so she was often crafting them in her workshop -- waiting for the day they would be born. Following the sounds of her work, the Warrior walked to the back of her atelier. She was there, as beautiful as ever, her eyes focused on her sculpting work. 

 

“Dearest sister, I’ve come to ask you a favor.” The Warrior put on his best and most charismatic smile. 

 

Not looking up a moment from what she was doing, the Maiden responded. “Oh brother, you seem to always want something from me. But your charm will get you nowhere. What is it now?”

 

Not at all phased by her cold response, the Warrior pressed on. “Well, as you know, the wars in Westeros are going well. It seems that the West might soon win against the North, which I had not envisioned at all.” The Maiden did not answer, but smoothed the skin of her current human project. 

 

To praise her work would be the best, the Warrior knew this. “I could not help but notice the eldest daughter of lord Stark. I dare say, if I may, that she is one of your best works.”

 

At this compliment, his sister looked up from her project and smiled. “Yes, my maiden Sansa. She is a beautiful young woman, strong and fair.” As she finished her sentence though, the Warrior could see she was onto him. 

 

“I will not take her from your flock without your permission.” He started, unsure about how to continue.

 

“You most certainly will not.” The Maiden said, her hands on her hips as he muddled his words. If he hadn’t known better, he would think that his sister was toying with him. Poking at his weakness for beautiful human women. 

 

“But surely, dear sister, we can find a compromise. Something to appease you.” The Warrior closed the distance to his sister, a pleading look in his eye.

 

At that, he could see the Maiden consider something, her lips pulled into an evil smirk. It was unlike his sister to think this way, but yet again she was a very politically minded goddess. Her hand coming to his face and patting him across the cheek, the Maiden spoke. “Of course there is. You may pluck this maiden, take a human form and turn her into a woman -- a mother even. But there are two things you must agree to before I can allow this to happen.”

 

The Warrior was all ears, but weary of what his clever sister might propose. 

 

“First,” she said, a sweet smile on her face, “I would like to personally pick the human form you will take. Choose one of your warriors from your flock. It seems only fair.”

 

“Of course.” The Warrior agreed, that would be easy enough.

 

Inclining her head in a slight nod the Maiden continued. “Then I would ask of you something that is not in your nature brother. Something you must do correctly in order to have my Sansa Stark.”

 

The Warrior did his best to look relaxed, knowing well that inside his heart was pounding. “It is easy to simply force a maiden to your will. To steal her maiden’s gift and leave her ostracized and alone in the human world. So instead of waging war with your penis directly, dearest loving brother, you must wage it first with your heart.”

 

At this the Warrior was confused, not sure what she could be referring to. The look on his face seemed to amuse his sister, for she giggled and put her hands on her hips. “You must woo her, have her fall in love with your human form. Wage a war on her heart and win. Only then will I allow you to indulge in what you want. Then instead of having her once, you could have her many many times.”

 

There was a moment where he felt lost, squeezing his fists in frustration. The Warrior did not know what it was to love another, it was not a part of human nature he was interested in. Nor did he have the time or personal desire to learn about the hearts and wants of a woman. But as he stood there, his sister’s mocking gaze angering him and the thought of having his way with the beautiful Sansa Stark a mere agreement away, he realized the only way to win this was to surprise his sister -- for she was convinced he could not woo this simple human girl. 

 

“Of course sister. If it is your will that I woo this girl, that I use a  human form of your choice-- and the mind within it -- to conquer her heart then I will do it. I agree to your demands and look forward to having her to myself.”

 

“Excellent.” His sister grinned, one side of her smile pulled up a bit more than the other. “Then I suggest we be on our way. There is no time to waste and I cannot wait to choose from your flock.”

 

“Indeed.” The Warrior smiled to himself. He couldn’t help but wonder what he had exactly gotten himself into. It all seemed too easy, too smooth to be real. But he would weather the storm and have what he wanted. Now it was only a matter of time.


	2. A Human Form to Inspire Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Maiden chooses her brother’s mortal form, while the Warrior remembers what it’s like to be human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve got some work to do the next days so it might be hard to post. In addition I left my laptop adapter at home and I am abroad— so all of my edits and writing is on my phone AWESOME.
> 
> Hopefully enjoy this and thanks for the support. This was a kind of out there idea so I am glad for the involvement from all of you!

The Warrior

Flitting around the Westerosi war camps, the Maiden took her time observing and judging the various human forms her brother might take. 

“What about this one?” The Warrior asked her, pointing to a young knight who was blonde and fair of face. His hopes were, of course, to lead her into a form he would like. Something that would appeal to the young Lady Stark, not repulse her. It had not dawned on him when he agreed to his sister’s little rules that she might pick a child or an old disgusting man, and this made the Warrior edgy. 

The Maiden observed the knight closely as he shined his armor in Winterfell, coming up close to him and looking at all angles of his face and body. “No.” She replied after some time, “He is but a boy with a fair face and only the slightest bit of fuzz on his chin. We must find a man for our Sansa, brother.”

Somewhat confused but nonetheless relieved by this response, the Warrior continued to follow his sister though the northern camp. He had started her here in the hopes that she would choose a Northerman. Humans were very tribal and this young lady Sansa would most likely fall for one of her own kind, and not that of the west. 

“And him, dearest sister?” The warrior pointed to an older man practicing in the training yard. His five o’clock shadow dark on his weathered face, this follower of the Warrior had a tall and strong build.

But the Maiden merely glanced at him and shook her head. “No.” She said with no explanation. 

She was, of course, trying his patience. The Warrior was not known for his patience or understanding, and she of all the gods and goddesses knew it. Any human man he chose was either too skinny, or too old. Perhaps they were too dirty or not kind -- though how the Maiden could judge such things was beyond him. He was beginning to bore of this exercise, tire of having his sister deny every good healthy choice he could see possessing whilst taking her maiden’s gift. 

If there was one thing the Mother and the Father had done well, it was the gift of human sexuality. Human men experienced such a joy when they engaged in it, that it was almost a drug to the Warrior -- something gods were not meant to feel so strongly. So he had to persevere, he would have to agree to what his sister wanted, for it was this gift that he coveted most of all -- the gift of sexual satisfaction.

Done with the northern war camp, much to the dismay of the Warrior, his sister pushed on to the western war camp not that far away. Here he could already see she liked these men better. They were taller and broader than their northern brothers, and hairy too. The Maiden observed them while they ate or sharpened their weapons, lingered on their many faces and body shapes. It was only when they came to a stream where several of his western warriors were bathing that he could see her light up with excitement. 

There were several men in their prime, tall and strong taking a dip in the river nude. The Maiden’s cheeks reddened as she observed them, her eyes darting between the men. ‘She must find something here, otherwise I will insist she give up and allow me to choose once and for all.’

It was only then that her eye went to a man who was a bit upstream from the others. Alone amongst a gathering of reeds. Quickly he followed his sister to this man. “Oh brother, I choose him.” She said nearly breathless with desire, not needing to look any further.

The Warrior was appalled. While this man was indeed a prime specimen of his flock, perhaps even physically more admirable than the god himself, this human was horribly disfigured. 

“Dearest sister, why him? He is so, well he is so ugly! No maiden would want him, nor would she be able to look upon his face without disgust. I beg you chose a more comely soldier.” Admittedly the Warrior did not know much about human nature, but he was well aware of this. He knew to look upon this particular specimen would be to inspire fear, not lust. It was not fair of the Maiden to make him assume this form. Not fair at all.

The Maiden merely smiled her sweet sweet smile. “Just look at him.” She exclaimed, squealing with delight. “He is in the prime of his life, his body filled with muscles that would make any young maiden blush with desire. And look at how hairy he is, his perfect chest covered in dark masculine hair!”

The Warrior rolled his eyes at his sister’s musing. Women were such fickle things, and if she was this way, so too was her flock. The Maiden continued. “And just look at his manhood brother, it will not just take her maiden’s gift it will completely obliterate it. My beautiful Sansa should be filled completely, with no space left inside of her. There is nothing better for a maiden than a well endowed man, or so I’ve heard.”

There was no arguing with that. This man, who the Warrior knew as Sandor Clegane, was indeed well endowed. He was a big man and stronger than an ox. But he was disfigured, ugly in the eyes of women. This made wooing the young Sansa Stark even harder. The Warrior gritted his teeth at his sister’s treachery. “But dearest sister, you play this game so unfairly. I mean look at his face, how could a maiden as beautiful as yours ever love a man like that?”

At this his sister became indignant, putting her hands on her hips in disgust with him. “If you think for one moment that my maidens cannot find the beauty within a man, then you are mistaken. You have always been obsessed with the superficial, focused on strength, muscles and beauty -- never have you ever looked within man to see their good. It is difficult to win a maiden’s love my brother, and it will certainly take more than a pretty face to do it. This one is perfect. No, he is better than perfect and I will only allow you to take his form.”

Perhaps it was the mark of a good warrior to know when a battle was lost, for the Warrior saw his sister’s crossed arms, her foot stop on the ground and her lips in a thin line. He knew he would not win. “Fine. I agree to take the form of this Sandor Clegane. The Lord of the West. Then work together with this man to woo the beautiful northern maid I so desire. I promise it so.”

Satisfied, the Maiden kissed her brother on the cheek. “I will be watching you very closely.” She smiled, then vanished leaving him alone with Sandor in the river. 

Not exactly knowing where to start, the Warrior looked the man over. The Lord of the West was a man of immeasurable strength. When he had made him, the Warrior had gifted this Clegane with many characteristics to make an excellent fighter. His size was one thing, eclipsing any man he would meet on the battlefield. There was also a mental toughness in this man that allowed him to fight and kill with little remorse -- untouched by the horrors that were often found in battle. But he was a hard man, this Sandor Clegane. Neither a loving man, nor a kind one. He was surely the polar opposite of Sansa Stark, for the Warrior knew that his sister made her flock with love and kindness in their hearts. 

“You’ve really done it to yourself this time.” The Warrior lamented, watching Sandor wash himself in the stream. 

Taking a deep breath, the Warrior then merged himself with this mortal vessel. It was a difficult process to become human, one that took concentration and will power. When possessing man, a god could never fully take over their minds -- though they could feel both the emotions and physical touch of the person they possessed. To take over the mind of a human would be infringing on the work of the Father and the Mother. So while the Warrior could influence this man heavily, he could not completely control him either. But feeling everything from pain to the exquisite warmth of a woman’s sex through this possession would be possible. 

The Warrior took a moment to acquaint himself with Sandor Clegane’s body, flexing his fingers and bending his knees. It felt amazing to be human, if only for a little bit. Immediately looking between his legs, the Warrior bid Sandor take his own manhood in hand. 

“Oh my sister does have quite a taste in human cock.” He smirked to himself, feeling the weight of Clegane’s penis for the first time. Even at rest it was a trunk between the man’s legs, falling heavily from his brown thatch of curls. Rolling his hips in a circle, the Warrior grinned to himself to feel the large organ hit the water a few times, huge splashes following it. Clegane was a big man, but his own manhood only just fit in his oversized hands. Much thicker than a sword handle and hanging down past his mid-thigh, there was no doubt that this god would enjoy wielding such a penis. If he didn’t know better he would have said this particular mortal form from head to toe embodied him to near perfection, save his face.

With this, the Warrior smirked, for he wanted to have a bit of fun in this strong worthy body. He started to give Sandor Clegane images of Sansa Stark, though he knew the mortal did not know her. It was important to inspire lust in this man, test his desire for the girl. He started slowly at first with visions of a pretty young woman with blue eyes and red hair, then slowly began to put more detail into these fantasies. The dip of her waist, the sight of her stiff nipples through silk, the promise of a nest of delectable red curls at the apex of the young maiden’s thighs. Then the Warrior grinned, for Sandor Clegane had begun to take his stiff penis in his hand and fondle it. As the images became more clear and even more dirty, the human began to fist his erection sending feelings through the Warrior that he had almost forgotten existed.

“The human male form is a gift.” He smirked to himself, as excitement coursed through his body with the increased intensity of Sandor’s motions. The Warrior urged his human vessel to dip a hand below the water and fondle his own balls. Feeling the skin in his fingers and pulling on them to make his cock more sensitive. “My sister did pick a penis that would inspire lust in a maiden, of that I have little doubt.”

The Warrior looked through Clegane’s own eyes down at his impressive piece and marveled at its length and girth, basked in the overwhelming feeling of human lust. “He may not be beautiful, but the Father has gifted this man with an organ befitting of a god.” 

As Sandor found his release in the stream, his seed spurting into the water the god found calm. His vessel had a strong and satisfying orgasm, the Warrior felt good about the situation. In fact he felt great about it. There was no doubt his sister had given him both advantages and disadvantages in this little game of theirs. But he would not be disheartened. If there was anything the Warrior liked, it was a challenge. Besides, Sansa Stark was only a woman -- a maiden at that -- how hard could it possibly be to make her fickle heart fall for him?


	3. The Spoils of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor Clegane meets the girl of his dreams and begins to doubt his actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, hugs and kisses to all. I wrote this on my phone with 2 thumbs so please point out any funny errors 😂😂😊😊😘😘

**Sandor**

 

Opening his eyes only a crack and first, Sandor breathed deeply, happy that it was still before dawn. His tent was shrouded in darkness, which was all the better for him -- especially now. Not that he would have overslept, his men would have made sure of that -- but he would need some time to quiet his raging erection that had been bothering him most of the night. He’d wanked so long and hard since he had bathed in the late afternoon, that his poor cock was sore to the touch. It was like he was fifteen years old again, the voracity and the frequency with which he had been relieving himself these last hours was that of a green boy who had found a big new toy to play with. But he couldn’t get her out of his head, and she was fucking beautiful. A figment of his imagination, but a damn sexy one worthy of the amount he had been masterbating. 

 

Reaching under his rough woolen blanket Sandor grasped the base of his aching member tightly and began to massage himself again, for he had lost count of how many times he had done it. These flashes in his mind were so vivid, clearer than any dreams or fantasies he had ever had before. She was smiling at him, her deep blue eyes playful as she pulled him into her bedroom. 

 

“Come with me Sandor.” She would say with a giggle, her dress slightly asque, falling off her left shoulder. They’d been messing around before that, having not been able to contain himself before reaching her bedroom. 

 

He would take her slow at first, ease his anxious cock into her welcoming warmth. Cupping his balls and pulling on them gently, Sandor intensified his pleasure by stimulating the head of his cock, now no longer able to stay contained in his constraining foreskin. Knowing he couldn’t keep this up for long without chafing his best part more than it already was, Sandor quickly brought this hand up to his lips and spat on it. Bringing the lubrication back down to the most sensitive area of his cock, he quickly continued where he had left off. She’d be tight, Sandor knew she would -- wet, ready and longing for him to take her. Tightening his fist around his pulsating manhood, the Hound simulated the feeling of her tight, warm little cunt. 

 

“Fuck.” He breathed, pressing harder and harder into his hand. 

 

Her perfect white skin would be flushed due to exertion, her pleasure visible in her eyes and lips. The girl would cling to him, beg him for more and he could only oblige her wishes. Swirling his rough fingertips over his bulging head, Sandor knew he would make quick work of himself. How could he not with such a beautiful woman wanting his attentions? He would be her first and only man -- though this had never gotten Sandor off in the past, there was something about it that had his cock dripping with thick long droplets of desire. Sandor’s hand moved up and down his full length -- which took time considering his overly large size. But it was a sweet torture, one he would have to get used to as his fantasy woman impaled her little virgin cunt on him again and again. Her perfect little orgasim and the clenching of her walls would put Sandor over the edge, finish him off. He was only a man after all. There was no man of flesh and bone who could fight against the desire his fantasy woman instilled in him, a god perhaps but not him. Suppressing his own groans at this climax, Sandor felt his hot seed leak onto his belly, his body relax and his breathing catch up with his heart. 

 

“Shit!” He breathed. 

 

There was never a bad feeling when Sandor wanked, it always felt nice -- but today he felt fucking amazing. He felt strong and ready to storm Winterfell castle. He felt like he could win. The odds were certainly not in their favor, the Lord of the West was not so foolish as to think so. But the Westermen had no intention of keeping the stronghold, they just wanted to sack it. Take the valuable things, livestock and what not, then return to their homes. And they were close, very very close. Laying his head back on his lumpy pillow, Sandor exhaled. He’d need to buy a whole whore house when they returned to Clegane Keep and lock himself in there for a day at this rate. For it seemed this otherworldly feeling of strength carried with it an intense virility that he had never quite experienced.

 

Exhaling deeply and in a satisfying way, Sandor reached in the darkness for a rag to clean up his mess. Usually, when he pleasured himself this much in quick succession his load would diminish. However the last twelve hours had proven this long accepted truth false. It was almost like his seed became thicker and more plentiful every time he found his completion. His rag now thoroughly soaked in come, Sandor shook off these oddly unsettling feelings in favor of focusing on the looming battle.

 

His men were scared, Sandor was sure of it. The Northerners were formidable in battle, known for being ruthless and above all disciplined. Being honest with himself, Sandor had to admit that the only reason they had come so far was because they had been opportunistic and had not played by Lord Stark’s rules. To assault a castle would be totally out of their depth. ‘ _ But if you never try you’ll never know.’  _

 

Strapping his armor on tightly and checking the balance of his sword, the Hound felt eerily good about his chances today. He was often agnostic when it came to battle, not wanting to feel overly confident about the day before it played out. But somehow, he couldn’t wipe the sheepish grin from his face. Exiting his tent, he was pleased to see his men preparing for the assault. Westermen were a diverse lot, it was difficult to get them to do anything together, much less fight a proper war against a proper lord. 

 

They started the assault at dawn, all it took was a battle cry and a race toward the castle walls. Sandor was the first to cross the battlements, his legs carrying him faster than they ever had. He couldn’t shake this energy boost in his step, the coordination with which he swung his sword and moved through the castle’s courtyard. It was sheer and utter chaos, the Northmen had not at all been prepared for them. The Hound could sense their fear, and gods be damned he was going to capitalize on it.

 

Sandor’s sword passed through his northern adversaries as if they were made of snow. It was an intoxicating feeling, this sensation of invincibility that permieated his very being. It was better than any drug, more addictive than any substance Sandor had ever known. He was a machine killing any man foolish enough to cross his path, and it boosted the morale of his men. Standing a moment in the center of the battle, Sandor threw his head back and howled toward the sky. He was by no means a religious man, but today it was as if the Warrior himself had possessed him. Making his flesh invincible and his hunger for blood nearly insatiable. 

 

Seeing that the Northmen were losing, Sandor rushed into the castle so as to scout it for loot. Women, children and young boys were crying and running for their lives — the noise of the battle nearly drowning out their fear. It wasn’t surprising to see them take one look at his face and run. Smiling, Sandor searched the castle room for room, looking for anything that might be of value. Coming to a crossing of hallways, the Hound couldn’t really say what made him look down the darkened hall to his left. Only that he could not fight the urge to take a step and peer into the black abyss. He wasn’t quite able to make it out at first, but a young woman was running toward him, her head turned behind her as if she were fleeing something. Squinting against the light coming in from the side windows, he could make out her long red hair, her dress ripped exposing her left shoulder. She had her long gown gathered in her hands so she could run across the cold stone floor. It flowed behind her like a raging river of fabric of light blue fabric.

 

_ ‘What the fuck?’  _ Sandor wondered to himself as she came toward him in what seemed like slow motion. His stomach knotted, his chest fluttered at the sight.

 

It was when she turned her face to him, however, that he nearly leaped out of his skin. It was the girl from his dreams, her perfect porcelain skin, her deep blue eyes — her utter beauty. Upon seeing him her mouth contorted in horror, she tried to stop herself — but her momentum and the soft leather of her shoes were working against her. She slipped, landing hard on her bum nearly in front of him.

 

“Noooo!” She screamed, while she turned as fast as she could and clawed at the floor to find her footing. Tripping again over her long skirts she fell to the slick ground and hit the side of her head on the floor, knocking her unconscious.

 

Nearing her quickly, Sandor first checked to see if she was breathing. She was, just knocked out from the sudden blow to her temple. Moving her hair from her face Sandor couldn’t believe she was real — flesh and bone instead of fantasy and imagination. He dragged a bloody finger down her cheek just to check if she was real, she was. Hearing footsteps coming from the dark hallway, Sandor looked up from his kneeling position over the girl. It was one of his men, his little erect pecker jutting out from his pants.

 

“Back off man, I didn’t even get my go!” The foot soldier ordered, not knowing who Sandor was or not caring.

 

Cocking his head to the side, and filling with a rage that was far beyond what he might normally feel, Sandor stood up, grabbing the man by the throat and lifting him against the wall.

 

“Did you touch her?” He asked through gritted teeth, taking full advantage of his size and deformity.

 

“No, no. You can have her mate.” The man could barely talk given how hard Sandor was squeezing his neck.

 

Enjoying watching the man’s eyes bulge from their sockets, Sandor squeezed tighter. “Did anybody else touch her?”

 

There was a flicker in the man’s eye then, this feeling that he was somehow fucked. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Uhh, ummm…” Panic filled the man’s eyes and his erection had long since shrunk into his pants.

 

“Well...why don’t you check?” The gaze between them was more than tense. Sandor held all the power, the man’s sword long fallen to the floor under the pressure of his choke.

 

Releasing the man Sandor moved his head toward the lower half of the woman’s body. When his comrade hesitated he barked, “Get on with it!”

 

The foot soldier shook while he knelt down and lifted the young woman’s skirt, pulled it up slowly over her milky skin. There was no doubt he feared what he might find there.

 

“Well, well, today’s your lucky day.” Sandor taunted, a devil’s smile crossing his face. Realizing that she still had her small clothes on and she was not slicked with blood or had bruising, the man visibly relaxed and looked toward Sandor with a relieved smile. 

 

“You get to keep your cock.” Sandor said with a smile to match the man before him. “I’m just gonna kill ya clean.” 

 

The man’s eyes widened only or a moment, not realizing that Sandor’s sword had already severed his head from his body. Grabbing the girl and throwing her over his shoulder, Sandor immediately knew she was still a maid — as pure as the first winter’s snow. It was a feeling that came over him, a knowledge of what her state was. It was a strange feeling, an uncomfortable one. Sandor quickly shook it off.

 

The whole situation was strange. While it was not uncommon for his men to take wives or rape local women, Sandor did not partake in it. He was enough of a monster already without adding kidnapping and rape to his crimes. Aside from that, it had just never sat well with him. So it was completely out of character for him to take this girl. He fought within himself, thinking it might be best to stow her in a closet and leave it to the gods. But something stopped him. She was safer with him, there was no doubt in Sandor’s mind. There was no telling what kind of man would come across her and what he would do. The Hound was protective by nature, there was no two ways about it. But what bothered him even more was that Sandor had dreamed of this girl, felt her touch and smelled her scent— wanked to her utterly amazing curves. To steal her away would be to, in the eyes of his men and the Northmen, take her to wife. Not one to believe in the gods or fate, he couldn’t fight that lingering feeling that something was amiss. 

 

“This is a fucking mistake.” Sandor mumbled to himself, through the sounds of war. It unnerved him to break from the norm, to do something so out of character because of a stupid dream. But he felt compelled to take her, as if his very existence depended on it.

 

Brushing his concerns aside — again— Sandor made his way to his horse. Carefully placing his precious cargo atop it, his body thrummed with adrenaline, his hands shaking. Sandor never shook, be it for fear, or excitement or anything else that made normal men do so. Something was strange and it bothered him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. But there was no point in dwelling on it now, he and his men needed to ride. A few quick hand motions to his men in the courtyard, a gallop — and the Westermen were gone with all the spoils of war Winterfell could offer.


	4. The Maiden’s Resilience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both the Warrior and Sandor get a little more than what they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't exactly where I want it to be, but I promised myself to do minimal edits and changes ;-) It's a bit of a time thing and also a way to keep it fun. Hopefully this week I can work on this and another story to give some long awaited updates.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

##  The Warrior

 

His plan was falling into place, in fact it could not have played out better. The Warrior smiled to himself, feeling the fresh northern air hit Sandor Clegane’s marred face. The thrill of battle had been utterly intoxicating, if not completely addictive. Though the god had known this, for he had created such desires in man, to experience this feeling through this human vessel gave him a completely different appreciation for it. It was like they had been one man, a perfect symbiotic relationship as they had cut down the northern fighters. The elation that came with death and destruction pumped through the Warrior even more acutely because this Sandor Clegane loved the thrill of battle, thrived on it even. That part had been perfect. The Warrior had to admit that his sister had as good of taste in his flock as he had in hers. Picking the biggest, strongest and most battle hardened of men for him to possess.

 

This human vessel also shared his taste in women, which could not be discounted. Previously, as the Warrior had possessed other male forms, it had been for such a short bit of time -- a day or so -- that it had not mattered much if he and the man had differed in their tastes of the flesh. The god had simply asserted his desired on the mind of these men with such resolve, and taken them by surprise, that they had very little time to fight back. Even then few of them had possessed the mental wherewithal to do so anyway. But this man was different from the others, special in a way the Warrior wasn’t sure he appreciated. Clegane was attracted to the girl, that much was obvious. The Warrior had felt the pulse of his human form increase at the sight of her running toward him, the pang in his heart as she turned and looked him straight in the eye. Certainly it would not be difficult to convince him to take her maiden’s gift, for the visceral reactions Clegane was experiencing were evidence of a strong sexual desire. The Warrior’s possession of him only heightened these feelings. 

 

Clegane’s feelings of protectiveness toward the girl had been unsettling, giving the god cause for concern. The Warrior had grinned to himself as Sandor had taken his own man by the throat and interrogated him with little remorse. He too had been afraid that this joke of a soldier had stolen her from him -- taken her from his sister’s flock before he had. Relief had swept over both man and god in the same way. The decapitation of that idiot had been of the god’s own doing, he had wanted to see the soldier's eyes roll in his severed skull. Revel in watching the life drain from his pathetic body. It hadn’t sat well with Clegane, the Warrior had felt it, but he had quickly set his attention back to the beauty laying before him. It had unnerved the god that Clegane’s first thought had been to store her away in a closet somewhere, to hide her from the battle so she might be safe and found by her family. It was utterly ridiculous if he had to be honest. The god had not anticipated that he would have to convince his human form to take this girl with him. Sure, the Warrior had never possessed a man as long as he had Sandor Clegane, had never had to deal with these kinds of situations before his sister had imposed these rules on him. Yet he was concerned as to what this man might do, and how he might ruin the god’s own plans to lie with her. There was an utter satisfaction that came with taking her maiden’s gift as ferociously and as often as possible, and the Warrior hoped this moment had merely been a hiccup in the bigger picture of obtaining his heart’s desire. 

 

Looking down at his precious cargo, the Warrior couldn’t help but smile. The girl was placed side saddle in front of Clegane, her legs to one side and her head against his armored chest. The Warrior bid Sandor bring his nose to her hair and inhale her scent. She smelled like lemons and fear. The god loved fear, he certainly got off on it. He needed her to be afraid, so that he could get what he wanted from her. 

 

_ ‘If she is afraid of my warrior she will certainly open her legs for him.’  _ The Warrior grinned. It only seemed a natural payment for protection.

 

Of course his sister had added a layer of complexity to the whole thing, forcing him to “win” the heart of this young maiden. 

 

_ ‘But the difference between fear and love is only razor thin my sweet sister.’ _ The god couldn’t help but smirk at this thought, knowing that his beautiful redhead would have to give into Sandor Clegane one way or another. He was her protector and her lifeline. The only man that stood between her and men who would do her ill, or the elements that would conspire against her. The sooner she understood this the better, for while the Warrior enjoyed this male form, he would soon grow tired of it -- and there was no saying to what lengths he would go so as to have this maiden all to himself. 

 

* * *

##  Sansa

 

Her head was pounding. That was the first thing Sansa thought as she began to stir. The side of her head was exploding with pain, so much so that she could barely open her eyes to assess her surroundings. The smell of horses and dirt filled her nostrils next, making it clear to her that she was no longer in the castle of Winterfell, no longer in the safety of her home. 

 

_ ‘The big one.’  _ She realized all at once, and she gasped audibly. Before she had lost consciousness she remembered the huge warrior standing in the hall, bigger than any man or beast she had ever seen. 

 

_ ‘He’s taken me.’ _ Sansa realized, fear creeping through her body. She knew what that meant, for it was the same in the North and in the West. She was to be his wife, his woman and even his slave. 

 

Her body suddenly coming to life, Sansa began to twist and fight, doing her best to slip off the saddle and make a run for it. When a large arm came around her stomach and held her even closer to her captor, Sansa brought her hands up to his face without hesitation. Gritting her teeth and screaming, she dug as hard as she could into his face. The man’s beard was bristled and hard against the palms of her hands, her nails dug into what skin he had exposed. The scarring on his face feeling hard and not human against her finger tips. 

 

She was yelling of course, “Get off of me!”, “You barbarian!”, “Let me go!” These were the only words that came to her mouth, her head pounding while she fought against him. She used all the might in her body to protect herself. Sansa was kicking and pushing against him with the hopes of slipping off the horse and making a run for it.

 

There was some laughter in the background, that of the other Westermen watching the whole thing unfold. She could hear them whistling condescendingly and throwing verbal japes at the man who was supposed to be controlling her. Her captor got off the horse then, leaving her atop it with more space than she had thought was there. Just as quickly he pulled her violently from the huge war horse and she hit the ground with a loud thud, knocking the wind out of her. But it didn’t stave off her will to fight. While Sansa fought to regain her breath, her eyes looking up at the greyish afternoon sky, her back on the hard dirt road the barbarian straddled her. From this perspective he looked even larger than she remembered, blocking out the sky completely from her view while he used his own legs to squeeze her thighs so tightly together that she could not move them. Still not in control of her arms. Sansa did what she could to scratch and lash out at his face, hoping to get an eye or make him bleed. A satisfied feeling crept over her to see some fresh blood on his lip, it’s bright red color highlighted by the white light of a cloudy midday. Inevitably he gained control over her arms catching both of her tiny wrists in his large hands and stretching her out so she could no longer struggle. 

 

His long dark hair shrouded his face from the others, his eyes were black as night - so much so that Sansa couldn’t detect a pupil. They were not human, dark and full of rage -- they scared her, gave her a cold child down her spine. She did her best to stare as defiantly into them as she could, reminding herself that she had the heart of the wolf and that he was a simple barbarian -- nothing more. He’d realize her value as the young lady Stark and sell her back to her family, surely he would. 

 

They were both breathing heavily, their little fight costing them both precious energy. He had a dagger like stare as they both caught their breaths, and Sansa did her best not to show her fear. “Now,” he started, “you can behave and ride up in the saddle with me. Or…”

 

She would not negotiate with such a man, she would not listen to his words. Not wanting to know the rest of his ultimatum or caring to Sansa spat right in his face, narrowing her eyes at him, daring him to do something more. There was a murmur through the crowd as she did so, an eerie silence that hadn’t been there before. She could feel his hand around her wrists clench tighter then suddenly loosen, as if he were battling against himself for what his next reaction might be.

 

Wiping her spit from his face with his free hand he cocked his head to the side, “Suit yourself.”

 

Rolling her over on her chest, Sansa immediately began to kick and scream -- though it did little to stop him. With a rope he secured her arms behind her back, then tied her ankles together. All the while a true feeling of helplessness began to set in, Sansa knew she had been taken and that he had little intention of bringing her back. 

 

Once her bonds were secured he rolled her over again so as to face him. The barbarian then ripped a piece of her dress off from the bottom and tied it around her mouth to gag her. The rest was easy, he lifted her as if she were a very light sack of flour over his shoulder.

 

“If you need help with that hellcat Clegane, just let me know.” Said a man Sansa could not see. She could, however, feel her captor turn his head toward the voice and could only imagine the death stare he gave this man -- for everybody was immediately silent. 

 

Opening the blanket he had on the back of his horse, this man she only knew as Clegane threw her over top of it, her back to the sky her belly on the horse and threw the rest of the blanket over her. He mounted his horse swiftly after that, and then the group was on their way. 

 

An overwhelming feeling of helplessness swept over Sansa as she lay there fumbling with her wrists. They chafed under the rough woven rope and she realized that, no matter how hard she tried, she would not be able to free herself -- not now anyway. She was tired from her struggle, exhausted from the events of the day. Sansa fought back bitter tears, knowing she had done a stupid thing.

 

_ ‘Mother will never forgive me.’ _ Was the first thing that came to mind. They had all been securely stowed away in their panic room, Sansa, her younger siblings and her mother. They had barred the door and were hiding in a part of the castle few would find -- or even know about. It wasn’t long after this that Sansa had realized she left something of value in her room, a necklace her father had given her when she turned seventeen. So she snuck out of the safety of the panic room, knowing good and well that she must be swift to make it there and back. The castle had been quite enough, though the sounds of war from the outside were loud -- almost defaning. Moving quietly through the back halls of the castle, Sansa had made it to her room with little issue and had been happy to see it still untouched. The attack had been unexpected but she knew her father’s forces were stronger than that of the raiders. She knew they would prevail.

 

She had been just about ready to open the drawer of her vanity when she heard something behind her. Turning quickly she saw a small man there, a Westerman judging by his poor quality of armor and the colors of the house insignia he wore. He was a small man, with a sword and a horrible leer. She couldn’t say how long he’d been watching her there, only that he had begun to pull out his manhood and rub it in front of her. The moment he stepped out of the doorway and toward her, Sansa knew she would have to make a run for it. Waiting until he was close enough she darted to the side hoping to make it around him and out the door. Not anticipating this, he man tried to grab at her, only pulling her sleeve and ripping her dress at the neck line, but she was free. Picking up her dress as best she could Sansa darted down the hallway in a vain attempt to find a place to hide from the man -- hoping he would quickly lose interest and move on. That was, of course, when she had run into this man. The scary monster of a man standing in the middle of the hallway. Sansa had screamed at the sight of his scarred face, at the size of him. He was a  monster come to life from the fairy tales old Nan had told her as a child. She had slipped and after that, she couldn’t remember much more. 

 

Hot tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes as she watched the ground change below her. They were moving further and further away from Winterfell, from everything and everyone she had ever known. But she would not cry, she refused to shed a tear. This man didn’t deserve her tears or her sympathy. She would need to stay sharp if she wanted to get out of this, she would need to keep her wits about her. 

 

Sansa prayed to the old gods, prayed for them to show her the way, to forgive her stupidity and to protect her. It was a silly ridiculous thing to ask of them, but she needed them now more than ever. A wind picked up in that moment, making the leaves on the trees russel almost like wind chimes and Sansa could swear she heard the giggle of a child -- though it couldn’t be the case. The Westermen never traveled with their families, so it must have been a figment of her imagination -- but it filled her with a sense of peace all the same. Sansa felt a strength that she didn’t know she had, a confidence that she would somehow make it out of this terrible mess.

 

It wasn’t long after this that the horse stopped, all the horses stopped as far as she could hear. There was some talking and such going on, but Sansa couldn’t really make it out. Suddenly she was lifted from the horse, again over the barbarian’s shoulder and put down slowly on a patch of grass. He removed the blanket from around her body and Sansa immediately took in the view. They were still in the North, that much was clear -- the deep colors of the evergreens and the thick forest were enough to tell her that. They had stopped in front of a huge lake, men were watering their horses, some were even stripping off their clothes to take a swim. 

 

Sansa hurt all over, it was only as she was now sitting up right, with her hands tied behind her back that she realized how sore everything was. Her shoulders hurt from her wrists being bound so far behind her back, her chest and belly were sore from the cadence of the horse. Her legs were in pain from their scuffle where she had kicked and screamed more than should could ever remember. 

 

Her captor, however, seemed calmer now, as if the ride to this lake had cleared his mind a bit. He cut her arms loose and removed her gag. Then he handed her a skin of, what she presumed, was water. Sansa looked into his eyes and found it curious how the light could play tricks on her. His deep grey eyes looked at her with a curiosity that had all but been absent only hours before. As a matter of fact there might have even been a concern in them -- but she couldn’t be sure. 

 

“Go on, drink.” He ordered, but in a low voice. 

 

It was in this moment that Sansa was reminded of a story her Septa used to tell her about the Maiden. This obscure fable was somehow extremely relevant in this moment, for she found herself in a very similar place. The Maiden had been kidnapped by her uncle, the Stranger, and taken into the underworld with him. The Stranger had fallen in love with the girl, and wished to claim her as his wife. But the Maiden had been clear headed, smart and resourceful. She knew her brother, the Warrior, would come for her -- that all she would have to do was bide her time. Knowing her uncle would never claim her against her will, the Maiden played the lute for her uncle, sang him songs -- did what she could to entertain her captor so that he would be distracted. Even when he had offered her food and drink, the Maiden had politely declined -- knowing that to do so would be to accept him and thus stay with him forever in the darkness of the afterlife. This had been the story of the Maiden’s Resilience, the story of her willpower and a lesson to young women that you could wage war with different instruments than that of the Warrior. For when her brother did come, the Stranger surrendered knowing he could never vanquish the god of war and destruction. Though, deep down in her heart, Sansa had always wondered if the Maiden had fallen in love with the Stranger -- even though her Septa would have never said anything to this effect. For Sansa had translated many of these stories from older languages into the common tongue and found discrepancies as to whether the Stranger and the Maiden shared a family or romantic love after her abduction. Either way, the Maiden had forgiven the transgressions of her uncle therefore keeping peace amongst the Seven.

 

Looking into this man’s eyes now, Sansa wondered if he was more like the Stranger or the Warrior. He could have been either given how differently he was treating her, his demeanor earlier and now as different as night and day.

 

Sansa refused his offer of water, though she was very thirsty. 

 

“Come on now.” He urged, “You’re not doin’ yourself any favors. You need to drink.” 

 

Perhaps she was not as resilient as the Maiden, but they were not in the underworld, they were in the North -- and Sansa was but mortal. He was right. Nodding, Sansa took the skin of water and drank deeply -- allowing the cool water to fill her body. 

 

Grunting an approval, the man stood up and tended to his horse. Sansa watched him out of the corner of her eye as he lovingly brushed and patted the mighty war horse. It was a mean looking thing, black as night and larger than most other stallions. 

 

_ ‘Like his master.’ _ Sansa thought to herself as she took another drink of water. Her captor then shed his armor, rolling it up and tying it to the horse, leaving him only in a blood stained tunic and leather pants. Sansa watched as he removed his tunic, the creases of his muscles bathing in the later afternoon light. There was not a cut or even a bruise on his body, the blood had been from the men he had vanquished. 

 

_ ‘He must be quite a warrior.’ _ Sansa realized, her eyes taking in her captor, trying to find a weakness to exploit. 

 

She wondered immediately what had happened to his face, for a man like that was not simply pressed into a fire, or slashed by another man’s sword. They were old scars, the redness in them long gone.  _ ‘Did they happen when he was a lad, or even worse, a child? Is that why he’s so mean?’ _

 

A million questions were running through Sansa’s mind at high speed as she looked him over. Kicking off his boots and dropping his leather pants, Sansa turned away so as not to see him naked. She had no interest in such things nor did she want to give him the idea that she did. He ran into the lake along with some of the other men, cleaning themselves of the blood of her father’s soldiers. Looking down at the grass for a moment, Sansa said a small prayer for those who had perished today. Surely they had fought bravely against the western invaders, their lives would hopefully not have been sacrificed in vain. 

 

She was lost in thought and sadness, unsure as to what to do next. Sansa hadn’t realized that Clegane had clothed himself quickly, turning his attentions back to her. Finding herself looking down at the the ground again as her captor approached, Sansa only glanced up when he took hold of the ropes tying her ankles. Cutting through them, he looked a minuet at how red her skin had become then looked her in the eye. 

 

“Come.” he said simply, taking her gently by the hand and helping her into his saddle. 

 

There was no sense in riding side saddle as she normally would have, for the western saddles were not made for that -- and they would be two atop this giant of a horse. Sansa noticed a smirk on his face as she straddled his horse, felt him settle into the saddle behind her and press her body against his own. She swallowed hard knowing his manhood was unapologetically stiff between them, his leather pants and her silken dress the only thin layers between them. 

 

_ ‘He must be their leader.’  _ Sansa realized as all eyes were on him. Nodding and raising a hand, the men were off again, this time at a much faster pace. 

 

They rode in silence, which was all the better. Sansa had no interest in speaking to this man, no desire to know him better. She wanted to be home, to be in the loving arms of her mother once again. 

 

The Westermen stopped in a clearing as the sun was starting to lower in the sky. Pulling away from the men, this Clegane fellow dismounted his horse and quickly made camp. A couple of sticks and some fabric for a lean-to type tent were what he had available. Then he took the two rough wool blankets he had and put them underneath, making a space for a fire nearby. Seemingly satisfied with his work, the monster of a man lifted her off his horse and sat her down on the blankets. 

 

“Wait here.” He said, then walked toward to rest of his men. 

 

But Sansa had no intention of sitting still or waiting for her captor to return.  _ ‘I will not lose my maidenhood on the dirt of a forest to a man such as this. I won’t be his servant.’  _

 

A light breeze went through the trees and Sansa could swear she heard her name being called from the forest. It was almost like a song, the calling of her name was so close yet so far away. But it did not scare her, quite the opposite -- it gave her courage. Ripping the last bit of her long dress at the bottom, so it wouldn’t drag in the forest underbrush, Sansa made a run for it -- hoping only that her prayers of salvation had been answered.


	5. By the Old Gods and the New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and the Warrior fight a bear in order to save Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a crazy brain drain type week. So I didn't get to writing anything until now. This coming week looks much the same, so let' see what can get pumped out -- here's to hoping for the best!!!

##  Sandor

 

_ ‘What the fuck is wrong with you Clegane?’  _ The Hound asked himself rather angrily as he made his way through the encampment of Westermen. On the outside he looked like his normal piss and vinegar filled self, but on the inside he was deeply doubting his sanity. Sandor wasn’t himself, and the nature of his moods made him question what exactly was wrong with him. It was as if he had been gripped by urges darker than even he cared to know, the girl was an obsession that seemed to only bring out the worst in him. 

 

It had been bad enough that Sandor had stolen the girl, thrown her over his shoulder like the barbarian she claimed him to be, and made off with her. The Hound could live with that though, write it off to overly protective instincts, or concern that she would get caught up in the chaos and fog of war. As big and as ugly as he was, Sandor was the safest person to be with in the thick of battle -- as long as you weren't on the other side. So he could justify his actions as impulse, complicated by the lucid dreams he had of this girl before he even knew she was real. That, in and of itself, should have scared him. But it didn’t, his fear had been reserved for something far more sinister. 

 

Sandor typically liked a strong woman, ones that weren't afraid to fight if they found themselves in a corner. So the level of rage he had felt course through his veins when she tried to escape his grasp had been surprising -- if not completely frightening. It was a dark and foreboding anger, making him feel things that had been reserved only for his brother, Gregor. Whatever had possessed Sandor to pull her off his horse so hard that she hit the ground with a sickening smack, was beyond him. There was no doubt in his mind he could have crushed her with one hand, strangled her dainty little neck until the life would leave her eyes. Smack her around until she kept her mouth shut.  All of these possibilities had flashed before his eyes in that moment, and the Hound had resisted. He’d fought the dark and violent impulses burning within him as if his life had depended on it. Instead of acting out he had stared into her beautiful blue eyes and saw fear -- a fear he could not abide by.

 

He was not a good man. The Seven surely knew this, in addition to any one he had come against in battle. Sandor had little remorse for his fellow man when it came to war, had never loved or felt even kindness toward his fellow man. But all of this had changed when he laid eyes on this girl, when he’d seen her helpless on the floor and in need of somebody to protect her. The Hound wasn't stupid, he knew the girl had not dreamed that her savior, and captor, would look like him -- even be a man like him. He was no knight, even then just a minor lord who was only just keeping a grip on power. But that’s how it had turned out -- despite her greatest desires and fantasies -- she was stuck with him. Now he would have to make something of this mistake, force these dark thoughts from his mind and woo her if he could. 

 

_ ‘Who am I fucking kidding?’  _ Sandor slammed his fist against a tree and watched the bark fly. This young woman was no peasant, not even a lady in waiting. The flawlessness of her skin and the beauty of her dress all pointed to the daughter of a lord. Though which one, Sandor couldn’t be sure. All he knew was that  lords didn’t like their daughters being stolen from them -- that surely they would come after her.

 

Grabbing a pair of boy’s pants and a tunic that looked about to be her size, Sandor exhaled deeply. He wasn’t one to make stupid mistakes like this, to put his band of men in danger unnecessarily. Kidnapping this girl may have been just that, a misstep and an unnecessary risk. 

 

Looking down at his half hard cock, Sandor glared.  _ ‘You got me into this.’ _ He cursed at his own organ,  _ ‘Now you better get me out of this.’  _

 

That was more a poorly timed joke than anything. The Hound could not claim to know the inner workings of women, what they were thinking or how they felt. Though he didn’t have to be an expert in the study of the fairer sex to know stealing her from her family was not the way to bring her to his side. 

 

A shiver went through Clegane’s body at this thought, his mind again battling some untold force that threatened to rule him. He couldn’t deny that he wanted nothing more than to lie with the girl, to have her accept him as her man -- to see her smile at him because she loved him. It was stupid, but he would give nearly anything to spread her legs and have her welcome him there. To kiss him, squeeze his large body against hers, shudder with pleasure around his cock. 

 

Sighing, Sandor grabbed a smallish sized jerkin thrown over a horse with some boots and hoped they would fit her, along with the other items of clothing he had pulled together. She would need something more suitable for riding than that dress she had on and warmth for the crisp nights. Grinning to himself with the slight hope she would snuggle close tonight, Sandor grabbed a bucket of water, threw a rag inside of it and made his way back. The Hound knew that if he wanted to keep her he would need to treat her well. He would need to protect her, care for her -- show her he was something other than a barbarian with a raging erection. It was as if the gods were testing him, forcing him into a situation that was so against his own natural desires and character -- just to see if he could make it out alive. 

 

_ ‘Or just for a laugh.’ _ He thought bitterly to himself. Of all men, he knew he was not favored by the gods -- not by a long shot.

 

Content that the camp was set up and guarded, Sandor made his way back to the small travel tent he had set up for himself and his lady. He’d pulled away from his men on purpose, for he did not want her to hear the things that would happen this night. Many of the younger men had stolen brides, and would take them to wife tonight -- whether willingly or not. The “Warrior’s Wedding” they called it, for the god was known to indulge in stolen women after battle -- blessing such unions when done immediately. Sandor wanted nothing to do with it, nor did he want this young woman to think he would do the same to her. 

 

_ ‘I will not be my brother.’  _ He promised himself, ‘ _ I’ll do right by her, even if it kills me.’ _

 

Upon reaching his tent Sandor peered around the dense woods, hoping to see the girl taking a wee behind a tree -- for she wasn’t where he had left her. Dropping the water and clothing where he stood, the mountain of a man went to investigate closer. She’d ripped off the bottom part of her dress, a couple of inches lay on the dirt floor near the tent. 

 

“Fuck!” He cursed out loud, looking around again to make sure he hadn’t simply overlooked something. 

 

She had fled into the forest, taken advantage of his short absence to do so. Twisting around Sandor scanned the trees, finding some spears one of his men had deposited nearby  -- incase of a surprise attack. Grabbing two of the long weapons, Sandor looked back toward where the girl had left part of her dress. 

 

It was times like these when the Hound was relieved his father, and his father before that, had been kennel masters and game keepers. Sandor could hunt wild game and track far better than most men or beasts -- he was confident in his ability to find her. She could not have gone far after all, the forest was dense, the sun was beginning to fade and her clothing would only hamper her progress. But this knowledge did not settle the Hound’s churning stomach. Looking up into the canopy of the trees, Sandor watched them move, though there was no wind he could detect on his skin. The northern forests were unsettling places, with far different beasts and dangers than those of the west. There were sayings in their lands about how the northern forests were protected by an otherworldly force, that the old gods used their magic here -- and foreigners were unwelcome. The Hound didn’t believe in old wives tales, nor did he pay heed to the gods no matter where they came from. But there was something unnatural about this forest, and it made Sandor uncomfortable, made the hairs on his neck stand on end. The soft and distant laughter of children didn’t help, for he knew there could be none in these woods -- attributing it the strange rustling of leaves. Gripping the two spears firmly in his hand, Sandor knew that these would have to be enough should they come across something deadly -- or he hoped anyway. For he would not be the only predator in the woods at dusk, which meant he would have to move swiftly.

 

* * *

 

##  The Warrior

 

This was not going to plan at all, and the Warrior could not have been filled with more rage than he was now. This Sansa Stark was as unruly as she was beautiful, taking every opportunity to undermine him. Fighting against him on the horse, embarrassing him in front of Clegane’s men -- and now this. The Warrior had entertained the idea of leniency after seeing how she had reacted to his mortal vessel giving her water at the lake. He’d seen the look in her eyes when he’d cut through her bonds, felt the flutter in Clegane’s heart when she did finally drink. Though it was not his way, the Warrior had been open to how he might claim this girl using the body chosen for him. He had been ready to play by the rules his sister had imposed upon him, use Clegane’s protective nature to make his way under her skirts. But now, after this third incident, he was no longer in the mood to be kind or lenient. When Clegane found the girl, and he knew he would, the Warrior would be sure to slap her around a bit, show her she was his then force her to agree to sex. And when she did open her legs, he would not be gentle. He might take days to have his fill, weeks if she kept on like this.

 

But there was no guarantee that would happen, which angered the god even more. Clegane had proven himself more difficult to control than the Warrior had counted on. The mortal had been a conduit for his anger, felt these kinds of feelings as strongly as the god himself did -- but had warred with him all the same. As he had thrown the girl to the ground, the Warrior had bid the man slap her for her troubles -- but Clegane had overruled him. No matter how strong the god had willed Sandor raise a hand to the girl, it had not come. Instead he looked into the girl’s eyes, softened by the fear he found there. Rolling her up and throwing her on the back of Clegane’s horse had been a compromise of sorts -- but the Warrior knew it had not sat well with the man. But he had been so angry that he could not look upon the girl without feeling rage -- it had been safer for her on the back of the horse, no matter how uncomfortable it might have been for her. 

 

So they had moved on, the band of western warriors made their way to a lake in the forest -- had stopped there for a rest. By that time the god had settled his temper, and though his captive was not pleased to see Clegane, she had not fought him. 

 

_ ‘Some small progress.’ _ The Warrior had thought at the time. However, now that had all been torn asunder. She’d run off into the forest, which was both stupid and dangerous. 

 

There were two choices the Warrior had at this juncture, to vacate Clegane’s body and find the girl quickly, or move with the man and track her down in the darkening woods. The god was filled with a sense of foreboding, not unlike his mortal vessel. For, even if Clegane did not know what the strange movement of the trees was, the Warrior certainly did. 

 

_ ‘The old gods.’  _ He whispered to himself, afraid they might hear even his own thoughts. 

 

He had not factored in their involvement, had not considered they would meddle in his affairs. 

 

_ ‘When this is over I will confront my sister with this treachery, for she must have known this yet said nothing.’  _ The Warrior was furious with the Maiden, for she had neglected to tell him that the Stark girl was not fully hers to give. This changed the landscape of their little game entirely.

 

The god shook his head in frustration, knowing his task had just become much harder than even he could imagine. As the Seven had moved through Westeros gaining more followers and popularity, rights had been stripped from the Old Gods. Those who prayed to and believed in the Seven, would be answered by them and were the domain of these gods. Those who prayed to the Old Gods, would be protected by them and no one else. 

 

_ ‘She must pray to both.’ _ The Warrior realized, slowly putting together the web of treachery his sister had been weaving against him. ‘ _ The daughter of a Riverlander and a Northman, she is not fully the property of my sister.’ _

 

There were grey areas of course, for the Seven had little interest in living things other than humans. They sustained themselves from their offerings and prayers, used their powers to continue this fealty into, what they hoped, would be perpetuity. But the Old Gods, they were very different, and this worried the Warrior as he and Clegane advanced in the woods. These deep northern forests were their strongholds, the weirwood trees their chapels. This meant the Old Gods did not just have power over the humans who prayed to them, but over all the beasts of the forest as well. The Warrior hated animals, disliked how unpredictable they were -- mistrusted them. Despising the corner he was now backed into, the Warrior chose to stay within Clegane’s body, fearful that to vacate it would be to put himself at the mercy of a power he did not fully understand. Also, if the gods of the north were to kill this man today, the Warriors chances would be over with the young Lady Stark -- this could not be discounted. He would not be denied his prize. He would stay and help Clegane, even if it was a risk for himself.

 

A fear rose inside the Warrior that he had not felt for some time. Though the sun was not low in the sky, the forest was already darker than it should have been due to the thick canopy of leaves above him. They needed to find the girl and they needed to be quick about it. The Warrior allowed Sandor look through his eyes, so as to see better in the slowly growing darkness of the northern wood. The man was a good tracker, and a famed hunter -- the god knew this. But they had already wandered deeper into the woods than he would have wanted.

 

_ ‘The girl had help, there’s no way she could have made it this far alone.’  _ The Warrior realized, the fact that the old gods were meddling in this was now undeniable.

 

Suddenly, Clegane stopped and sniffed the air, the man’s hair on edge. The Warrior allowed the aromas to fill his own nostrils, it smelled like shit, dirt and something he could not place. There was a snap of a twig, then a gasp. Without warning Sandor took off in the direction of the noise, moving surprisingly quietly for a man his size. Clegane’s breaths deepened, his instincts in overdrive. It was when they reached a small clearing that the Warrior felt Sandor’s fear take over. For it was difficult to miss, standing on its hind legs pressing its nose into a dead and hollowed stump. The creature before him was the biggest bear the Warrior had ever seen. It was at least ten feet tall, abnormally large for such a creature -- and it was white, which made the Warrior’s blood run cold. It was a sign of the old gods, a message to him plain and clear. The girl was there, on the other side of that monster -- that much was obvious to both the god and the man he was currently possessing.

 

The young god was at a crossroads yet again. For if he died in this body, that would be his end. There were no more chances -- which was why it was an uncommon practice amongst the Seven to possess human forms. But if he left it, saved himself, there would be very little chance that Clegane would make it out alive. The girl would surely perish as well out here in this mess. Feeling Clegane’s hand tighten around the spears, the Warrior was filled with a sense of strength knowing he had built this man brave and strong, if not slightly foolhardy. 

 

_ ‘But foolhardy is what we need now.’  _ The god thought, eyeing the bear. 

 

Before the Warrior could think more on the subject, Clegane whistled loud and clear through the quiet of the forest. The monster of a bear turned to look in their direction, easily losing interest in the stump and eyeing them with suspicion. Dropping to all fours and trying to decide how it would attack, the Warrior knew that they would need to get it to stand on its hind legs, to have any chance to felling the beast with only two spears. The god couldn’t deny there was a sort of rush that came with fighting this creature together with Clegane. It was as if they were one, as if they were meant to be together. 

 

Sticking one spear in the ground, Sandor began to sidestep around the bear, keeping their distance to one another as best he could while trying to entice it to move closer to him. The Warrior could feel the man’s palms sweat, knew he was fearful of the beast -- but knew his honor would not allow him leave Sansa in the forest alone. 

 

Eyes locked on one another, the Warrior waited for the bear to make its first move. Clegane was breathing deeply in a bid to calm his raging mind, to quiet that little voice in the back of his head telling him to run. There would not be much time to dwell on this though, for the bear let out it’s own roar and began to charge him, kicking up dirt and turf in its wake. They would not be able to injure it head on -- its belly, neck and chest the most critical targets. So Clegane stood fast, watching the beast charge him, counting in his head before choosing a side and rolling out of the way. The Warrior could feel the wind created by the running beast on the human’s own flesh. 

 

It had been close, so very close.

 

Not easily able to stop, the bear overran them by quite an amount of feet. It was then that Sandor began to yell at the bear, raise his arms high in an attempt to look bigger -- to challenge it even more. The Warrior wasn’t sure this was the best idea, but then again he did not know how to fight a creature such as this. He would have to put his trust in Clegane -- something he wasn’t used to at all. Taking in this display, the monster of an animal turned around to look at Sandor, then stood on its own legs to roar. 

 

His mortal vessel didn’t hesitate, throwing spear in a clean overhanded motion, Clegane hit the bear in the shoulder, blood immediately staining its white fur. The Warrior grinned, for an injured beast would be easier to manage, would make mistakes they could capitalize on. The animal cried out in pain, it’s eyes flashing almost red in the darkness of the wood as it broke the spear in one swipe of its gigantic paw. Now only a shortened piece of wood still dangling from its body. Moving faster than it had before, the white bear charged Sandor again knocking him to the side with its huge head, sending the big man to the ground. The Warrior bid the man get up quickly, but it wasn’t fast enough, for the animal batted him with it’s large paw -- slashing his leather jerkin and sending him to the forest floor again. 

 

Imparting on him all the strength the Warrior could, Clegane reached up in his best attempt to keep the bear’s face away from his own. The creature intended to maul him, rip at the soft and exposed flesh of Sandor’s face and neck. It’s head was huge, the animals breath stank of rotten meat and it had a ferociousness that frightened the Warrior. His human vessel pushed against the bear’s neck, using his reach to keep its head back. Clegane was constantly moving his head from one side to another in order to avoid coming into contact with the animal’s sharp teeth -- keeping himself from getting mauled through sheer strength and grit. Needing to get out of this position, the man took his other hand and began to punch the bear in its face as hard as he possibly could. Two, three, four times against the snout with as much power as both he and the god within him could muster. 

 

Surprised, and somewhat stunned, the bear paused only long enough for the big man to wriggle out from under him and run as fast as he could toward his final spear. It was ridiculous to think he could kill this animal alone and with only two spears, so they would have to use this final weapon carefully. The Warrior didn’t want to die, especially not this way. Pulling himself together, he focused again on the task at hand. 

 

Clegane didn’t have to turn his head to know the bear was right behind him, he lunged for the spear and experienced both the joy of feeling its sturdy wooden body in his hand -- and the pain of the bear’s claws cutting deeper through the back of his jerkin and into his flesh. The Warrior bid he not pay attention to it, used all of the adrenaline in the man’s body so as to keep him focused on the animal. However the god could feel the blood flowing out of the man’s body, knew the cuts were deep on his massive back. But the two pressed on.

 

Twisting around, Clegane whipped the bear in the face with the blunt side of the spear, trying to gain a little distance from the creature. They would need to aim for its heart, otherwise there would be no second chances, they would be out of weapons and out of options. Side stepping the animal’s advance yet again, both the Warrior and Clegane had the sinking feeling this would not go anywhere without putting themselves at grave risk. 

 

The Warrior knew what the man had in mind, knew it carried with it a huge amount of danger.  _ ‘You crazy son of a bitch.’  _ The god said, knowing that Clegane would hear it as a second voice in his head.

 

Sandor merely grinned and took off after the bear. The beast had not yet had time to turn around to charge him again before Clegane leapt atop its back, a spear in one hand, the animal’s fur in another. He began to kick the bear, using his immense strength and excellent balance to successively hit it in the ribs several times. The Warrior knew what he was doing, he wanted to make it angry -- urge it do something to expose itself. He hoped the fool knew what he was doing. 

 

Unable to hold on to the bucking monster of a bear for too long, the pair were thrown from it’s back, landing on the forest floor with a loud thud. By all accounts it should have broken Sandor’s back. The bear should have killed him in that moment given the strength and power with which it had ejected Clegane from its body. But it had not. Surprising even the Warrior himself, Clegane shook it off, never letting the animal out of his sight. Breaking the spear in two, so as to shorten it, Sandor waited for it to run at him again. Knowing he would have to strike at the right moment. 

 

The Warrior was impressed, exhilarated by the thrill of fighting this supernatural beast. It mattered little whether this man prayed to him or not, for he was giving him all the blessings the god could give. Strength, clearness of mind in battle, bravery -- Clegane embodied these principles and made it easy for the Warrior to fight alongside him.

 

The creature did not disappoint, turning around in pure anger it began to charge the man. Sandor was breathing deeply, both physically exhausted and high on adrenaline. As the white bear ran toward him, it raised up in the last minute so as to swipe at him with its front paw -- that was when they attacked. Yelling as loud as he could and pulling his massive arm back, the pair lunged toward the bear driving the spear through the animal’s chest and into its heart. In what could only be seen as shock, the bear looked down a moment at the second spear, back at Clegane, then staggered off a few paces and fell to the ground. 

 

Sandor’s hands were on his knees, he was bent over and breathing wildly. The Warrior watched with awe and surprise, ‘ _ We did it. _ ’ He realized in this moment. 

 

He wanted to jump up and scream his victory so that every god, new or old, could hear it. This was a thing that songs should be written about, a new scripture in their holy books should be devoted only to this great victory. The Warrior wanted to bask in his own glory, celebrate this great win. However, his human form was exhausted -- far too tired to do much more than get out of there. Turning his focus back to the hollowed stump, the Warrior and Sandor made their way there -- looking throw a small opening where they knew Sansa to be. Her eyes were wide, as she had watched the whole battle unfold right before her eyes. The Warrior’s first instinct was to pull her from her hiding place and take her right there on the mossy floor -- he’d beaten the old gods at their game and needed to blow off some steam. But Clegane stopped him, despite his physical tiredness he still seemed to be able to overrule, to a point, the god inside of him.

 

Reaching a hand out to her, Sandor spoke. “It’s alright, come on out.”

 

The girl was trembling, and the Warrior couldn’t deny she was quite fetching when she was scared. 

 

“That’s the biggest bear I …. I…. and you killed it.” Sansa paused a moment, “Alone with two spears. That’s the work of five...I…” Not sure what the say the girl’s eyes were just looking at him in disbelief. 

 

Reaching his hand our closer to hers, he responded. “Yeah I guess I did. Now come on, let’s get out of here before it gets darker.”

 

Nodding she took his hand. Sweeping her up into his arms, they made their way back to camp through the dense forest. The Warrior couldn’t help but overhear her mumble something and it made him smirk, for she was such a good northern girl. It was a quaint practice, her short prayer for the bear to go with the old gods. He and Sandor had managed to stave off their attack and reclaim the girl as theirs, but the Warrior didn’t know how much longer they could last. The sooner they could make it south, the better.


	6. A Northern Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries to find it in her heart to make peace with her situation, while the Maiden makes a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello dears! It's been a while since I had time to get some real writing done. I'm very happy to have this chapter done. I've not had so much time to proofread it, so fingers crossed it's not too bad on that front.
> 
> Cheers!

#  Chapter 6: A Northern Will

##  Sansa

 

Too exhausted to hold her head up and too overwhelmed to care, Sansa pressed her face into her captor’s shoulder and let it settle there. 

 

_ ‘He smells nice.’ _ She thought to herself, though she knew it was improper to think so. There were hints of moss and tree bark to his scent that she had always enjoyed. 

 

This monster of a man had just killed the biggest bear she had ever seen in her life. Her father and brothers often went hunting for them when the season was right. They had come back with large ones from time to time, but always in a group and always with enough weapons. This westerner had done none of that. He had been brave and selfless when most normal men would have left her to the white beast. Sansa had seen the animal draw blood from the man, and he had carried on fighting as if nothing had happened. 

 

_ ‘The Warrior has clearly gifted this western fighter with bravery and strength.’  _ Sansa sighed at this thought. She was not at all pleased with her situation, but couldn’t deny that she would rather be in this mess with one as brave and true as this man -- instead of an old and ambitious lord. While her captor might not be a knight like in the stories her mother used to tell her, she could not deny the fact that he was valiant all the same.

 

Though scary to look upon and intimidating in his form, this Westerman seemed protective of her. That was what she needed right now -- protection. This man, who had stolen her from her home, was her only life line. Sansa saw that now more than ever. There would be no running away, no fighting him -- she was his. But she didn’t have to resign herself to this -- Sansa knew she would have to make the most of it. She would have to try her best to convince him to return her to her father, or to hand her over to a proper lord somehow. However the man known only to her as Clegane confused Sansa deeply. It was as if he were fighting inside of himself for something, but for what exactly she could not be sure. She had seen him angry, his eyes darkened and glossy as if he meant to hurt her -- or worse. She had seen him soften when she accepted his water, when she had taken his hand scared and alone in the woods. Despite his outward appearance there was something kind about him she could not place, something different from the rest of his men.

 

The sounds of the camp made their way to her ears, and Sansa knew they were back. There was movement, the sounds of crackling fires, and an awkward silence. She didn’t need to look up from her little spot buried in chest to know everybody was staring at them. Surely they both looked a fright. 

 

Not even breaking stride Clegane spoke, “Someone go skin that damn bear out there. I want that fucking hide.” His voice was one of anger and agitation, barking out his words to make the men move.

 

There was a moment of hesitation, then a scuffling of feet could be heard as a couple of his men rushed into the woods to do his bidding. Sansa pushed it form her mind, she didn’t care very much right now. She was numb from her head to her toes, devoid of all feeling or emotion. She wanted to go home, she wanted to be safe in her bed. Yet she had the powerless feeling of knowing she would not be in her own bed tonight. Knowing she would be with him.

 

When his feet stopped, Sansa felt Clegane shift and slowly bring her to the ground. Only then did she look around to get a sense of where they were. His meager tent was where she had left it, though admittedly it was darker now -- the greenery of the forest lost in the evening twilight. Different from before was a bucket of water and a pile of clothes, presumably for her because they were much too small for him.

 

_ ‘I guess this dress won’t get me very far.’  _ Sansa realized, looking down at the tatters that were a beautiful silk gown.

 

Their tent was in a small clearing away from the rest of the barbarians -- something Sansa appreciated. They scared her, looked at her with a thinly veiled hunger that told Sansa the only reason she hadn’t been torn to shreds already was because this particular man had been the one to steal her. There was little honor between barbarians, Sansa’s Septa had always told her that. At least they seemed to respect this one, her captor and now her protector. 

 

Her feet firmly on the forest floor, Clegane walked over to where a pile of sticks and dry moss was already placed, took out a piece of flint and began to start a fire. 

 

_ ‘He’s rather accomplished at this.’  _ Sansa thought, watching the ease with which he manipulated the flint, and how calm and easy his breaths were so as to stoke the fledgling fire. He took care when he did it, a spark to his eye that had been almost non existent on their trip. 

 

Coming to a proper fire rather quickly, the western warrior turned to her and looked her over a moment. Sansa wondered instantly how he had come to his facial scars. He was so big and so strong it seemed unlikely that he would have come to them through physical violence -- for she could not even envision any man or beast being able to over power him. His annoyed sneer reminded her not stare as she was, and Sansa immediately turned her face down toward the forest floor. Even then, Sansa couldn’t help but feel his eyes on her -- looking at her as a man did a woman, how a predator did its prey. 

 

“You should wash up and change.” He said gruffly, “Those dainty clothes won’t last another day out here. Unless that’s what you want.”

 

His last sentence gave her a chill, made goosebumps form on her skin. She should have been scared of him, she should have even been angered by his insinuations -- but she wasn’t. There was a certain exhilaration to feeling a sort of sexual tension. Something inside her spoke to Sansa then, something that told her he meant her no harm — that he would not impose anything else against her will. Sansa couldn’t say how she knew this, muchless describe the feeling inside of her as she eyed the man curiously.

 

Kneeling down to pick up the clothing strewn across the ground Sansa answered him. “I’ll be needing a little privacy, if you could please turn around.” She looked up at him then, in an attempt to gauge his willingness to comply with her request.

 

Snorting the western warrior crossed his arms, “You chirp out niceties like a high lady.” His smirk was almost jovial, his look challenging her.

 

“Well that’s because I am a proper lady.” Sansa spat back. “I’m a Stark! And my name is …”

 

Her captor’s expression had changed quickly, from the moment she had said she was a “proper lady.” It was as if was reminded of something or knew something suddenly in that moment. He cut her off mid sentence, “...Sansa.” He breathed.

 

In her exhaustion Sansa didn’t fight to hide her disbelief at how he had known her name. In truth, he seemed just as shocked as her.

 

_ ‘How could he know this?’  _ She wondered then,  _ ‘How could he…’ _

 

There was little time ponder this further for the man she knew only as Clegane continued, “You’re gonna be there when I turn back around, right?”

 

There was a roguish grin on his face, as if he were teasing her. For her own part Sansa couldn’t help but expel a short laugh at his words. After all she had been through today, and after all he had done to return her safely here, there was no way in the Seven Hells she was running now. Somehow he knew that, and somehow he had decided to make light of it. Her laugh had relaxed his tense body language, but he kept an eye on her as long as he could before turning his massive body completely around so she could wash and change.

 

Her dress was ruined, no longer of any real value. The nights were not so cold yet, it was still summer — but she would need protection from the sun and the wind. Sansa quickly shed her garments, throwing them unceremoniously on the ground. Quickly she thrust her hand into the bucket with the, now very cold water, and began to wash herself. It was far from what she was used to: crouching around a meager fire in her small clothes, trying to quickly cleanse the dirt and sweat from her body, shivering in the mild northern night. Not wanting to get her new clothes wet, Sansa quickly dipped her head in the bucket and rubbed her tangled mess of red curls until she felt they were clean. She could hear him chuckle in the darkness, her captor, but she paid him no mind. The clothing he had scavenged for her fit better than she had expected. The pants were nearly perfect, the tunic a bit wide and long, the jerkin keeping the thin cotton of her tunic close to her skin. 

 

_ ‘I feel like a young lad.’  _ She mused to herself, wondering further what her male companion would think of it. Pants were unusual garb, even for a commoner, so she must really look out of place. 

 

Not quite sure what to tell him, Sansa cleared her throat to indicate she was finished -- even if her hair was still wet and sticking to her face and shoulders a bit. He got the message turning around to take stock of her in the pale light of the moon and by the red light of the fire. 

 

_ ‘He fancies me.’ _ Sansa thought, watching his eyes take her in. It was plain to see and, to her great surprise, bothered her less than she thought it would. In these moments, when he was content, she could see the steel grey of his eyes pop out against his dark pupils. They were an interesting color, one Sansa had never seen before -- except perhaps in those of wolves. Certainly they were not a common color in humans.

 

_ ‘But he is no more a wolf than I am. He is a man, plain and simple.’  _ Sansa told herself.  _ ‘Men can be simple and good, complicated and bad. Men can be persuaded and influenced.’  _ Her eyes met his in this moment, and it sent a spark running through her -- though she knew not why. 

 

She could see his injuries better now, the left side of his clothing matted and stained with both his blood and the blood of his otherworldly foe. “You’re injured.” Sansa whispered before her better judgement could stop her. 

 

It struck her that she should not feel pity or sympathy for this man, yet he was her protector now. He was the one person in this world responsible for her and she feared what would happen if he were to fall ill or die. Sansa needed him alive, she needed him strong. For she did not know what else was out there in this world, but she was sure she did not want to face it alone.

 

There was a long pause in their forced conversation, it made her feel uncomfortable. “It’s nothing.” He whispered finally, just as low as she had. Gesturing over to a pile where his water skin and a small package lay he continued, “Some food and water. Now don’t be runnin’ off anywhere.”

 

Her captor turned as if to retreat back into the woods. “Where are you going?” She said with a bit of indignation. Who was he to bring her out all this way in the rough and the dirt, just to leave her alone around a fire in the middle of nothing?

 

When he turned, the light of the fire caught Clegane’s eyes, and Sansa could see how the black of his pupils mixed with the grey of his irises -- it was otherworldly, and the very sight was so unnatural it frightened her. 

 

“I need some air.” He snapped, looking like he wanted to run away from her just as quickly as he could, though they had only just returned from the darkness of the wood.

 

_ ‘As we aren't surrounded by air?’ _ His words confused Sansa almost as much as they infuriated her. She couldn’t bare to be alone out here, with nothing and nobody. She’d never been without anything before, and she hated it.

 

“I don’t even know your name.” She said finally, resigning herself to the fact that she had little control over the situation. 

 

“Sandor.” He managed to choke out, before he turned abruptly and left her to their humble lean to tent in the middle of a big scary northern wood.

 

* * *

 

##  The Maiden

 

Night had fallen on Westeros, and the Maiden knew it was time to pay a visit to her favorite young maid. Neatly storing her tools in her workshop, she put a thin shawl over her head and quickly made her way to the Westermen’s camp. She knew her brother was angry, knew his temper could not be contained -- particularly when it came to not getting what he wanted. 

 

“We must all learn dear brother.” She whispered to herself, making her way through the camp to where Sansa was. Many a young maiden would lose their purity this night, there was nothing she could do to stop it. They were considered prizes, marriages sanctioned by her brother the Warrior and she could do little to appeal to their parents to stop such practices. So she paused a moment, said a prayer to deaden their discomfort this night, then moved on toward her Sansa.

 

The Maiden found her, asleep under a raw woolen blanket, her face on a lumpy pillow, her soft smooth body laying on the hard floor. The fire was still going strongly near her, the warmth of it showing in the flush of the girl’s cheeks. It was a far cry from what young Sansa knew. Staring at her creation for a moment, the Maiden forced a tiny smile. The goddess knelt down beside her, made sure her brother was not around, then spoke.

 

“My dearest dearest child. It’s been a long hard day has it not?” Smiling, the Maiden moved a lock of Sansa’s red hair from her face. “I do hope you’ll still light a candle in the Sept for me, even after all this.”

 

Furrowing her brow a moment thinking about how painful it would be for Sansa to not continue to leave offerings of devotion. It would be a truly sad time if this were to ever happen. Nonetheless, she needed to get this off her chest -- confess her plans even as the young woman slept.  

 

“I knew from the moment I made you that you could not escape my brother’s wandering eye. I knew he would desire you, yet I made you anyway.”

 

A sadness filled the Maiden, remembering this time with Sansa was but a lump of clay in her tiny workshop. “It was written in the stars that the Warrior would come to steal you away. It was written the moment I gave you lips of rose and skin of snow. And I knew already then, that he would have to learn a lesson, that he would have to prove himself.” 

 

The young goddess shook her beautiful head a moment, looked down at Sansa and stroked her soft white cheek. “I was also stubborn.” She admitted, though not as willingly as she would have liked to. “I could not bare to see you wasted on a boring old lord of Westeros. To have your father marry you to a man who would keep you on his arm, a pretty little thing, then drink and whore behind your back. No. You were meant for much greater things my love.”

 

The Maiden sighed, knowing there was little she could do to make up for what was about to happen -- knowing she could not stop the forces already involved. This game was out of her control. “You must know, I begged the Father and the Mother to give you a different road in life. But they would not hear it.” 

 

The Maiden felt pain admitting such sorrow, but she knew she must. Taking a breath to steady herself, she continued. “So I went to  _ them _ .” The goddess stopped a moment, she could hear the leaves moving in the trees, though there was no wind to cause such a thing. Smirking, she continued, “They’re here right now you know. The Old Gods, listening to my confession.” 

 

The young goddess looked up into the trees, so as to admire their wild beauty a moment. After some time, she turned her attentions back to Sansa. “When I could go nowhere else, when no one would listen -- I came to them. And I pleaded to them.” 

 

Sansa stirred a bit in her sleep and the Maiden pulled up her blanket so the young girl would not freeze. “I know naught of their ways. Their magic is different from my own. There was an agreement made, you would be both a child of the north and a child of the south -- that we would share you.” 

 

There was a long pause as the Maiden collected her thoughts. She had gone against the will of her parents, thrown caution to the wind, made an agreement with forces outside of her control. Slowly she continued, “They spoke not a word, then I could hear the voices of small children laughing. Before I could say another word I immediately knew who you were destined to be with.” The Maiden smiled, remembering the first time she had seen Sandor Clegane in her own consciousness. “Give Sandor a chance my child. You must see him for who he is, open your heart to him. You must love him as I love him.”

 

Wiping a tear from her cheek, the Maiden reflected on a time when she was in love. When she had taken the arm of her uncle, the Stranger, and accompanied him to the underworld. She had played the lute for him, they had danced, they had talked about all manner of things -- and they were happy in love. For he knew that to take her purity, would be to make her mortal -- and the Stranger understood this completely. The Stranger loved her for who she was, though he was disfigured and ugly -- for his job was to carry the many faces of death with him. None of them beautiful. The Maiden had not cared, she was beautiful enough for both of them she had said, and all she wanted was to be loved and appreciated. The Stranger was content with her, he loved her -- and Sandor Clegane reminded her so much of him. When her brother had come back to collect her, the Stranger had fought valiantly -- though he knew he would not win. The Maiden died the day they were torn apart, felt her heart being ripped from her body knowing that her parents would forbid her to ever see him again.

 

“The Old Gods are not like us.” She whispered to Sansa, “They do not want that one pays penance to them, gives them offerings for favors. They do not care for such things, they do not thrive on such transactional acts of devotion. They admire strength and will.” The Maiden smiled, “Sandor Clegane, though my brother’s creation, has the will of a northman. He will test my brother on all fronts, he will both enrapture and infuriate him. For Sandor Clegane has a will that pleases the old northern gods. And by extension you.” 

 

The Maiden caressed Sansa again, “Love him child, I beg you. For if you do not, I cannot be sure what will happen to you. I cannot stop the collusion of the gods child.” The Maiden burst into tears at the thought, hoping she had made the right choice. 

 

A wolf howled at the pale moon from within the woods, and the Maiden knew it was time to leave. For she did not understand the inner workings of the northern gods, only that they had already begun to make good on their promise to her -- whether she liked their means or not.

 


	7. The Warrior's Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wins his battle with the Warrior at great cost, while the Warrior claims an empty victory over his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short but important little update. 
> 
> Our story is moving along! there could be more chapters than what I've given as the end -- I had a revelation over the weekend and it might require some more space. Let's see ;-)

#  Chapter 7: The Warrior’s Anger

 

##  Sandor

 

The Hound spat into the air in his anger, making his way through the camp his men had thrown together -- now shrouded in darkness. He dared not show weakness, for to do so would be to open himself up to insurrection with from within. There was something very very wrong, he knew this instinctively. Having seen Sansa in his dreams only a day before the siege, then realizing she was real. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t how the world worked. His only conclusion was that the girl was cursed. She had to be for there was no other explanation for the bizarre events of the last days. 

 

_ ‘She seized me with her beauty, lured me in her helplessness, only to have me possessed by a bloody demon!’  _ Sandor cringed at the thought of even thinking such a thing. This was the stuff of old wives tales, and children’s fairy tales -- not the musings of a grown man. Blood coursed through his veins while adrenaline pumped through his body. Sandor had rarely been so angry without any sort of reason. He hated feeling out of control, he needed to get it together before this ‘thing’ devoured him whole. 

 

At this juncture he was just barely holding on. 

 

“Ahhhhhh!” He screamed into the darkened woods once he had made his way far enough from the others that he thought no one would hear. “It’s you!” He spat, looking down at his aching, engorged cock and feeling more dirty than ever. Sandor was almost of the mind to cut the bloody thing off the way this was going. 

 

Almost. 

 

He couldn’t be around the girl without having such a reaction, could only be a short time in her presence before his thoughts would sway back to pushing her dainty little knees into the ground and making her howl at the moon. There was an overwhelming desire to be her first and only, to make her his woman and wife in truth. He’d never felt such a thing for a woman ever, had never allowed his baser instincts to drive all reasonable thought from his mind.

 

_ ‘Gods I need her, but just not like this!’  _ Sandor was by no means a man of the Seven, the last time he’d prayed to any of the gods had been for the Stranger to take his brother away. He’d been but a boy then, afraid and powerless to fight the bigger, stronger and meaner Clegane. The Stranger was not a fashionable god to pray to, some would even say it was evil to wish another’s death as Sandor had wished Gregor’s. But he’d done it and the cunt of a god had not answered. Now Sandor wondered if this was what his brother felt all the time and had just given up fighting the desires all together. 

 

“Well piss on you!” He yelled to his brother and any god who might be bored enough to listen to him. Hitting a nearby tree with the side of his fist, the Hound squatted in the dirt and gripped the moistened earth with his hands. 

 

It took every fiber of his being not to run back to Sansa and make her his wife. This darkness inside him needed to be appeased, demanded release by means of her gorgeous maiden’s body. Slipping himself between her snow white thighs, kissing her rose pink lips. 

 

“Fuck you!” He growled at the darkness, clumps of dirt running between his fingers. “I’m taking her back. I’m taking her back to where she belongs and then I’ll be rid of you.” 

 

Of course Sandor wasn’t sure if that would truly be the case, all he knew was that this thing inside of him had started then. From the time the had laid siege to the castle. He could feel the rage of the demon build inside of him at this threat, could almost envision how it was yelling back at him -- ordering him to force himself upon the girl. Smirking first, Sandor began to laugh uncontrollably at the being’s discomfort. It was a crazy cackling sort of laugh, the one that men make after they realize they’re going insane. 

 

_ ‘Her father will have my head for this. The Lord Stark will not take kindly to what I have done, even if she is still pure.’  _ Somehow, at least in this moment, death seemed preferable to a raging erection and the crazy pull to fuck the girl bloody he had been experiencing. From young, Sandor had always sought to differentiate himself from Gregor, and he’d rather be dead than be anything close to that monster. 

 

Feeling the gashes that ran from his back to around the side of his body, Sandor couldn’t help but wonder why he didn’t feel anything. The white beast from the forest had struck him well, any mortal man would have fallen then and there. But he had not, and this bothered Sandor immensely. Pressing his finger into one of the wounds he wondered if he should clean them, do something to stave off the infection. 

 

The girl had seemed worried, in her eyes was the offer of aiding him with his wounds. For as much as he had wanted to be near her, have her fingers clean and patch him back together -- Sandor knew better than to trust this thing inside of him, even for a second. He also knew now that to even go close to the camp before morning would mean he might not be able to control himself. 

 

_ ‘Bugger the Seven.’  _ He cursed to himself, sitting back on his bum and finding a tree to lean against. He’d wait here until morning, the sooner they got out of these bloody haunted, beast filled woods the better. He’d make his way into the Westerlands, turn up north from there and take a more direct route to Winterfell. That way they might also avoid any riders come to reclaim her. 

 

Though he was loath to give Sansa up, for he had seen a sort of kindness in her eyes that few women had ever shown him, Sandor knew what he had to do. As another wave of rage and indignation came over him, the Hound sat firm knowing the end was near for both of them.

  
  


* * *

 

##  The Warrior

 

The Warrior was enraged in a way he had never been before. Since the creation of Westeros he could not think of one moment where he had felt such anger and disdain at one of his own. This Sandor Clegane fought his will at every turn, countered his plans to get close to the girl. Stifled his wishes before they could blossom inside of them man’s mind.

 

“You ungrateful little beast!” The god had been screaming inside of his human vessel. 

 

After all he had done for Clegane. Gifting him with an uncanny strength, a prowess in battle akin to the god himself, and a bravery even the Warrior questioned. “At the very least this mortal should be praying to me for what I have done for him. Not to mention bringing him this beautiful young girl right into his lap.”

 

A young lady like this would never look twice upon such a disgusting and twisted monster as this human vessel. Clegane was a monster and the Warrior knew his sister had chosen him because it would only be more difficult for him to achieve his goals. Surely this man would, like all the others he had inhabited, give into the god’s desires. It was just a matter of time and persistence. The Warrior implored Clegane the entire night to return to her, to check up on her safety, to keep her warm in the night. But the stubborn son of a bitch refused, instead cursing the gods and sitting the darkness of the northern wood. 

 

Even as the dawn broke and Clegane had to go back to pack up their camp and move along with his men, this mortal vessel resisted his every desire for him to touch the girl, kiss her, press his body unbid against her own. All the things that should have come easily to the man, that should have enticed him to give into the god’s own desires had failed. It only served to anger the Warrior further.

 

By mid-day the Warrior was at his wit’s end. He left Clegane’s body and rampaged to his sister’s workshop.

 

“Sister!” He yelled through her halls, stomping around them with no regard for any of her works or things. “Sister!”

 

He found her in the back, sitting on a chair putting the finishing touches on one of her flock. She didn’t even seem to notice him, thought the Warrior knew that could not be. “Sister, we must speak!”

 

She didn’t even have the decency to look up from her work to regard him, “What is it now brother? Start a battle you can’t win?” Her voice hinted that she was toying with him, which only served to infuriate the god more.

 

Slapping her pallet and paint brush from her hands the Warrior grabbed the Maiden by the shoulders and shook her so she would look at him. “You promised me something that was not yours to give! You mislead me. Had I known she was of the old gods…”

 

The Maiden did not flinch, maintaining a calm exterior. “...you would have chased her all the same. Come now brother, do you really think you are so unpredictable?”

 

At this the Warrior smirked, suddenly realizing what she was playing at. He’d been a fool not to see it before, but knowing this did give him power over her. He released her, but still stood uncomfortably in her space. “I know this game you are playing, you little wench. You’re still angry with me aren't you?” 

 

He crossed his arms and laughed as her face showed her true feelings, he had indeed been right. “You really do love him don’t you. Our uncle I mean. All these years later and you are still mad at me.”

 

“You had no right.” The Maiden stammered, unable to hide the emotion that filled her heart. 

 

“I had no right?” The Warrior scoffed. “I was doing what was best for you. Tearing you away from that disgusting creature. He’s barely a god, more a demon in my view.” The Warrior could see the anger spreading across his lovely sister’s face. 

 

“I never understood why you chose him, when you could have chosen me instead.” The god took his sister’s chin in his hand and made to kiss her. 

 

The Maiden slapped him hard across his face, her beautiful cheeks flushing with anger. The Warrior merely looked her over, a glint in his eye, a sadistic grin on his face. “You think you can teach me a lesson. You think you’ll make me feel remorse for snatching you back from the underworld.”

 

“The only demon in our family is you!” The Maiden spat back at him, her dainty fists balled up at her sides. 

 

The Warrior grinned, knowing he had pushed her over the edge. He could see his sister’s breast heave in anger and in fear. He would teach the little cunt a lesson now, remind her who was in charge. “I’m of the mind to give up our little game entirely.”

 

She gasped. “But Sandor is injured brother. If you are not within him he will surely die!”

 

“Then let our uncle take him. I figured you’d like that, then you’d have even more reason to go to the depths of the seven hells.” The Warrior spat back.

 

Tears welled up in his sister’s eyes. “You can’t leave them like this brother, you simply can’t. Where is the love in your heart? Where is the valor in your soul? Did our parents gift you nothing?”

 

The Warrior laughed. “I’m curious to see how they make it. I think the moment he falls off his war horse she’ll shack up with another Westerner. Women are weak and fickle, and she will choose comfort over kindness.”

 

His sister had crossed her arms, tears running down her cheeks. She had lost, and she knew it. The Warrior was pleased. 

 

“Get out!” She ordered. When he didn’t move she screamed again, “Get out!!!”

 

At this display the god merely inclined his head, smirked a his little victory, and vacated her workshop happy with the events of the day.


	8. Sansa's Resilience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds her own strength to take control of a bad situation.

#  Chapter 8: Sansa’s Resilience

 

##  Sansa

 

She watched the hoard’s horses kick up dust as they made their way to cross the river and out of her father’s lands. The river was wide, but not so deep or strong that the horses could not forde it. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness enveloped Sansa while she stood there, doing her best to be strong and not to cry. They had come to this river around midday to water the horses and catch their breaths. Word of riders had made it to the men, and they would rather melt into the Riverlands and beyond to the west than turn and fight. Sandor had been unsteady all day, Sansa could see he had not slept the entire night and that his strength was failing. He had made it until then, sat down by a tree on the river’s edge. He captor had not gotten up after that -- and Sansa’s heart had nearly stopped.

 

There was no honor amongst barbarians and she knew these men’s loyalty only went as far as what Sandor could provide them. They were not like her father’s bannermen, fighting a battle until the bitter end and dying for the cause. No, they were opportunistic and greedy -- they sought self gain and nothing more. It had not surprised Sansa that they had left her and their dying leader behind. It filled her with anger and bitterness. But two of his men had surprised her though, one of them spoke the Common Tongue and was able to understand her need. They had laid out the big bear skin under a tree and brought Sandor’s large body to rest atop it. The one who spoke the Common Tongue, Allistor, had given her some of his dried food, a large bottle of alcohol and a needle with some gut. They had said little else, but had left her with Sandor’s mighty warhorse tied to a tree underneath a canopy of northern trees in sight of the river.

 

Tears fought their way to her eyes, but she suppressed them -- forced them back to the depths from which they had come. She’d never been alone before, had always had somebody around to do things for her. Only now had she realized how sheltered her life had been, how easy and without difficulty it had really, truly been. Now, she was alone in a place she did not know, with a man she only barely knew. He was her only protection, her only human contact -- and he was dying. She felt it ironic how her Septa had always told her, that the day her maiden’s head was taken she would become a woman. Now Sansa knew this was far from the truth. Becoming a woman had nothing to do with this thin layer of skin that protected her womb, nothing at all. Today she would have a choice, to be a scared little girl and let the fates control the outcome, or to take control of what she could, be a woman and do something with the reality that lay before her.

 

She chose to make herself a woman this day.

 

Sansa knew she didn’t have much time. Sandor was burning up and the infection was spreading. She had watched Maester Luwin tend to a festering wound of their game keeper once, remembered what she had seen. 

 

_ ‘First fire.’ _ She said to herself, going to Sandor’s side pouch to take his flint and some small kindling. 

 

She had luck in the woods, for there had not been much rain this summer so  the fallen sticks and brush were dry. Clearing a small spot near Sandor with her hands, Sansa placed some sticks and put the kindling atop it. Having watched Sandor only do this once, she wasn’t very sure how to do it. She had to hit the two stones together to make a spark, then slowly blow on that spark until it caught fire.

 

_ ‘How hard can it be?’  _ She thought, kneeling down and taking the two stones together. Hitting them together several times and getting nothing, her resolve quickly began to falter.

 

It wasn’t simply enough to hit them together, she had to strike them in a certain way -- and slowly with care was not the way. Picking up the speed, Sansa began again to hit the stones together, this time catching her finger and yelping in pain. She brought the bleeding finger with a sore nail to her lips and again held back tears of frustration. This fire would be the first step to clearing the infection, she would heat the knife he had strapped to his leg, clean out the wounds and burn the exposed flesh before sewing it up. But if she couldn’t get this damned fire going, it would be all for naught.

 

Steading herself, Sansa glared at the pieces of flint in her hands and kept trying. She hit the stupid things so many times together that she lost all perception of time. Perhaps she had tried only a little while longer, perhaps half a day -- she couldn’t say. But finally, after several sore and beaten fingers, she saw her first spark fly into the kindling. Doing her best to keep her emotions in check she lowered her face near the ground as Sandor had and began to blow gently toward the spark. 

 

She coughed when she sucked in air and with that sucked in some smoke. But she had made enough of a fire to create smoke, she had then blown on it and eventually, with a little bit of patience, she had made a fire. Adding sticks to keep it going she wanted to get up and dance for joy, turn around and around until she fell to the ground from both joy and dizziness. That would have to wait though. Sansa needed to focus on the task at hand. 

 

Turning to Sandor she looked over his limp, fever ridden body. His legs were bent in a funny, almost unnatural way. His hair lay strewn half across his face and half across the fur.  _ ‘He looks like a fallen angel.’  _ She realized.  _ ‘A fallen archangel.’ _ She corrected herself, for even now he looked so powerful and dangerous Sansa almost felt afraid to touch him. 

 

But she had to. 

 

The claw marks on him were on his back and side, she’d seen the animal strike him and knew she had to do something. ‘ _ But not with that shirt on.’  _

 

It was in tatters anyway, his tunic from the day before. He hadn’t bothered to change it, the dried blood and holes still there to see. Taking the knife from his boot, Sansa used it to cut the offending piece of cloth away from his torso. 

 

She felt ashamed for feeling a warmth in her belly at the mere sight of his naked chest. As a maiden she was not allowed to look upon men in any state of undress, but she knew in her soul that very few men she had ever met would have looked as Sandor looked. His shoulders and chest were defined from years of weilding a sword. You could see every muscle fiber, every peak and valley there was to see on a man’s body. He was big, his hands the size of her face, his arms as thick as one of her legs, perhaps even more. His body was a landscape of violence, scars of different colors littering his fit hairy chest and stomach. She should not feel sorry for him, she should not pity him -- but the sight of his battered and beaten body made her feel for him. It made her feel many things for him -- some feelings she could not describe.

 

_ ‘How can one person live such a life of violence? Has he ever been shown love, ever?’  _ She was a stranger to him, and yet if she were not there his men would have left him to die there. How could she not feel heartbroken at that? 

 

Old nan had always told her every human deserves love and every human responded to love. She was sure Sandor was no different. He would just need time.

 

Using all the strength she could muster, Sansa pushed and pulled his large body so that he was laying on his side. Sniffing his wounds she could smell the infection and knew it had been this that had zapped his strength and given him the strong fever. She took the knife and put it in the fire, made sure it was warm. She stripped him of his belt and put it in his mouth. If she remembered anything from watching the Maester it was that the game keeper had screamed and howled as the knife went into this wounds. And it would be easy to bite off one’s tongue. 

 

There were three deep wounds, Sansa chose the one closest to Sandor’s side and delicately put the knife in. The feeling was sickening, she had to fight throwing up. Sandor twitched and yelled, but never turned to fight her. Sansa didn’t know if he knew what she was doing or if he was too far gone to care. His sickened flesh smelled like a rotting type of seared meat -- the consistency harder to cut than she had imagined. She knew she had to get as much of the rotting flesh out as possible, otherwise his chances would be slim. 

 

Sansa’s hands were covered in his blood, tears streaming down her face as she finished the last of the three gashes in his back. She took the alcohol bottle and poured the liquid over his fresh wounds. Sandor twisted and screamed such that he did then turn to her, his eyes wide in pain and anguish. Then his body fell slack just as quickly, his eyes holding hers only a moment before closing again. She removed the hair from his face and took him in a moment. Her heart swelled with the responsibility of having his life in her hands -- of doing the right thing.

 

“I’ll save you if I can.” She whispered. The bravery he had shown while facing the bear had infected her with a sort of bravery she could not have found otherwise. Then she kissed him on the cheek. It was a chaste kiss, yet surprising all the same. 

 

“Help me.” She said, using her arms to roll him again, for she had yet to sew him up. 

 

To her great relief, he seemed to be cooperating with her -- moving himself as best he could given the circumstances. Sewing his skin was surprisingly like sewing anything else. Of all the things she had done that day, this was the most relaxing. Sansa made sure to pull the gashes into three neat and straight rows, hoping they wouldn’t add even more brutal scars to his body. 

 

Night had fallen by the time she was finished, and Sansa sat there in the dark with the low light of the fire and watched Sandor. He’d been burning up and now he was shivering. Sansa knew it was very immoral to lay next to him, but after all that had happened today she couldn’t care less. Throwing his rough wool blanket over the both of them, Sansa snuggled up to her shivering protector, huddling close. Finding a comfortable spot to put her head between his shoulder and his chin, Sansa did her best to give him what little body warmth she had. She couldn’t help but like the feeling of his body close to hers, there was a powerful masculinity to his bulging muscles that made her feel safe. It also made her heart beat faster, knowing she was sleeping next to him as a wife might snuggle close to her husband on a cold night. She didn’t mind, he had risked his life for hers and now she would do what she could to stand by him. She would not allow him to die without a fight, and certainly he would not do it alone. The gentle but continuous beating of his heart made tears well up in her eyes for the third or fourth time that day -- for she knew he had a chance. She let her tears fall onto his neck and snuggled in even closer to him -- her tired and bloodied hand stroking the hair on his chest unbid. 

 

A wolf howled at the moon, its sorrowful voice piercing the night. He was not far from them, Sansa knew that. But she was not scared. The wolf was the sigil of her house since before Westeros had come to be. Old nan had always said the wolf was the protector of House Stark, that the Old Gods had deemed it so. Her Septa had always told Sansa that was nonsense. This conflict of opinions had never bothered Sansa before. However now, Sansa felt no fear knowing the pack was close by. Her father had often told her that wolves needed each other, they only survived when the whole pack worked together. So, if anything, it was soothing to know that they were being watched, and a force bigger than both she or Sandor was keeping an eye out -- ensuring they would make it through the night.


	9. The Finer Points of Fishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor wakes to a very different world than he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting on the plane to Korea, just had to leave this with you!
> 
> love!

#  Chapter 9:  The Finer Points of Fishing

##  Sandor

 

Sandor’s eyes opened slowly, his pupils fighting against the muffled sunlight streaming through the canopy of trees. He felt like he’d been run over by a horse, or had a rough night out on the piss. Though he had very much wished it be the latter of those two, he knew it would be something that almost killed him. He’d been in these kinds of positions before, and no matter how hard he tried, the Stranger would not come for him. He inhaled slowly and exhaled just as slowly, tuning his ears and nose to his environment. The usual smell of a camp with its horses, piss and general disgustingness was absent. In its place damp earth, embers and the sound of running water. 

 

_ ‘I’m alone.’  _ He thought immediately, moving to right himself and regretting it instantly. 

 

Instinctively he brought his hand to his side where the pain was coming from, and felt rows of neatly made stiches there. He knew it was her, for none of his men would have cared to make the stitching so small, or would have fretted over further scaring. 

 

_ ‘Sansa?’  _ Sandor brought himself to a seated position on the great white bear pelt from the beast that had put him in this exact spot. 

 

He could not shake the feeling that he was lighter, as if a great burden had been lifted from his soul -- the darkness had gone. Relief swept over him that he was himself, and that he had all of his limbs. One never knew in his line of work what they would wake up with, or without -- so he found himself thankful that it had only been a close brush with death. The bear’s claws had cut deep into his flesh, it was a wonder the infection had not killed him -- it was even more a wonder that she had saved him.

 

Pushing his roughspun blanket from his naked torso, Sandor looked around their small camp for any sign of the young Lady Stark. His horse, Stranger, was tied a bit away from him, grazing in the grass of a small meadow near the river. The Hound’s ragged lean-to tent was put up above him, though it shielded his giant body little from the sun. The trees were really his saving grace in this regard, their thick canopy keeping the forest floor cool and the sun to a minimum. A fire was smouldering close to him and his weapons were leaning against a huge oak tree. 

 

_ ‘Where could she have gone off to?’  _ He wondered, remembering what had happened the last time she had wandered off, and knowing he had neither the strength nor the resilience to fight another monster from the mythical northern woods.

 

She couldn’t be far for his boots, and a smaller pair, were neatly placed next to each other at the edge of the white bear fur. Sandor’s eyes followed some footprints from the boots to the small river beyond. There she was. Her trousers rolled up to her knees, her hair shining in the sun of the afternoon. Sansa’s red trusses were strewn over her shoulders and back, a stick in her hand and a cute but frustrated sound coming from her mouth. In the end she was not all that far from him, but she was so intent on spearing a fish that she paid Sandor no mind. 

 

“You’ll never catch a fish like that.” He called out, though his voice came out weaker than he would have liked. 

 

The look that graced her face was extremely surprising to Sandor, because it was warm and hopeful. She held her hand over her brow so as to better see him against the bright sunlight. The thought that she was actually pleased to see him was shocking considered all that had happened since he took her -- and he couldn’t even be sure how long it had been now.

 

Immediately stopping what she was doing, Sandor couldn’t help but let out a pleased snort at the vision of this highborn little lady maneuvering her way barefoot through the river and over the mud of the side banks. Even from where he lay he could see the dark mud squish between her petite little toes, covering her sometimes to her ankles. She was even more beautiful now than when he had first glimpsed her at Winterfell. Her smile played a big role in this of course, it was a sort of happy, carefree kind of smile that she had not had as his captive. If anything he was now indebted to her, a captive of hers you might say -- but it bothered him little. It was worth it to the Hound to see her long red hair flow wild over her shoulders, see her hands dirty from the work she had been doing for them in this little clearing and to see a sort of joyous confidence that she had not shown before.

 

“You’re alive.” She said simply, the sharpened stick resting on her shoulder, her gaze cast downward to where he lay. He could see just from the way the ends of her mouth curved that she was immensely proud of herself. 

 

“You’re the first person to ever say that with a smile on their face.” He said in response. When he realized she wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, Sandor continued, “It’ll take more than a fucking ghost bear to kill me.” Sandor answered more nervously than before, not sure what to make of the young lady before him.

 

Sansa smiled at this. “Like infection perhaps?” Her eyes went to his side and he touched his wounds gingerly.

 

Dropping her fish spear, Sansa knelt over him and pushed his hands away from the wounds. “Come now let’s have a look.” 

 

So surprised at this turn of events as he was, Sandor merely did as he was told, rolling a bit to the side on the huge white bear rug he was on and moving his arm out of her way. Her hair flooded over her shoulders and her fingers were tiny yet sure. The girl touched his body without hesitation, as if he were an old friend or a family member. Though to be honest, he did hope that she saw him as more than that -- even if now wasn’t the best time to think it. She was neither repulsed or uneager to look after him -- if anything she seemed happy to do it. Sansa was even pleased he was doing better. If Sandor had to be honest with himself, he couldn’t remember the last time anybody had ever cared for him enough to patch him up like this -- much less look after him in the middle of northern fuck-all. 

 

Sansa looked over the wounds carefully, then brought her nose closer. She seemed happy with whatever information she had just received from that. Whatever that was. 

 

“How do they feel?” She asked, poking his stitches a bit. 

 

He exhaled rather loudly, not having expected she would actually push on them. “I’ve felt better.”

 

Taking a bottle of alcohol from the edge of the rug , she poured a bit of it over his wounds and he let out some rather loud gasps. “For the love of the Seven woman, alcohol is for drinkin’!”

 

At this little outburst she laughed. “This saved your life.” She teased, sitting back on her heels and observing him a moment. 

 

“I should be thanking you for that. Fuck the bloody alcohol.” He managed to say, relieved she hadn’t left him for dead in the middle of the wilderness. The girl blushed slightly at his remark, but did her best to be as professional as she could.

 

Leaning over him she put her hand to his forehead lovingly, something he hadn’t experienced since he was a child. “You should be thanking yourself.” She said with a smirk, feeling him for a temperature. “You’re too stubborn to die.The Stranger had quite a fight on his hands.”

 

Now it was his turn to chuckle, not appreciating the way it felt when he did so. The stitches pulled and strained under this movement. “How many days?”

 

“Two and a half.” She said, moving some hair out of his face. “And you still need to rest.”

 

“Now don’t go motherin’ me woman.” He shot back, a friendly sort of argument he wasn’t ungrateful to be having with her. Especially considering all of the other options there were, most of them involving her being frightened of him or angry with him, or dead.

 

“Then what should I be doing with you?” She answered cheekily. 

 

“You don’t really want me to answer that, do you?” He wore a devilish grin, proud of himself that she had turned a slightly darker shade of pink.

 

She faltered a moment, smoothed an invisible line in her trousers, then gracefully tried to change the subject. “Drink and eat something.” She motioned to the water skin and a more than meager piece of dried meat. That must be the last of their food, hence her attempt at fishing. It wasn’t a bad idea, just not executed well. 

 

Sansa turned to go back to the river, grabbing her sharpened stick as she moved. “You’ll never catch a fish like that. Told you that already.”

 

Cocking her hip to the side, Sansa threw him a frustrated look. Sandor smiled, knowing she was giving into his adolescent flirtation. Only when he pushed himself from the ground did Sandor realize how steady he was on his feet, which wasn’t much. Catching himself before he looked too unbalanced, the Hound took a moment to feel out his body. His body was his livelihood, his weapon. He knew himself well, knew his physical constraints and where he needed to be in a fight. 

 

_ ‘She did good.’  _ He thought, flexing his hands and moving his partially naked body in the air. Things hurt, that was normal -- but he could stand and move despite his weakness. Turning his attention back to Sansa he couldn’t help but notice the way she was looking at him -- like he was a god of some sort. It was probably his bare chest that was drawing her eyes. Women liked that part of him, almost as much as they liked what was between his legs. It put him at ease.There was an attraction in her eyes that he hadn’t anticipated -- it was pleasing, something he had wished from the first moment he had laid eyes on her.

 

“Come on.” Sandor said as he approached Sansa, “I don’t wanna starve tonight.” He cupped her face with his large hand and she studied him a moment. Considering something, probably whether he was serious or joking. 

 

From what Sandor could presume, she must have understood his horrible sense of humor for she grinned and followed him to the river, where the water ran about knee high. It felt good to feel again, to be back in the world and to wake up to her. He motioned she come closer with his hand. Pointing to a spot in the river where there were some promising fishing spots, because there was a small tree in the river providing cover or an outcropping of rocks, they waded to that spot. 

 

“You see that.” Sandor pointed into the water. “That’s where a big trout might wait for smaller fish to come by. Then, when they swim over head, the trout will snatch’em up.” She seemed unimpressed by his fish knowledge, the way her arms were crossed in front of her chest. “So what we’re going to do is kneel down here, give our hands a wide enough distance and wait for a trout to come to us.”

 

Sansa didn’t look like she agreed with him at all. 

 

“And just how to you plan to catch it?” She asked.

 

“With these.” Sandor wiggled his fingers.

 

She scoffed at his words. “And how are those better than my spear?”

 

At that Sandor grinned. “Your spear might work on stupid northern trout.” He could see her narrow her eyes, “But these are tully trout, they’re smarter than the others.” At that she seemed to soften her features toward him. “The minuet you move that spear, they’ll see it and swim off. Their eyes are trained to look upward towards the water’s surface, not from the sides. So when one comes you move your hands slowly slowly from the sides and then …” Sandor grabbed her arm and she gasped so loud he had to laugh.

 

Blushing at her own response, Sansa smiled. Had he known he just needed to be her patient for a couple of days so as to deepen her affections for him, Sandor would have done it sooner. There weren't too many high born ladies who could have survived out in the woods as she had with him, and in a strange way Sandor felt she was grateful to him for the experience. It be very difficult to be so cut off from the world as high born ladies often were -- for some anyway. 

 

They stared at one another a moment in that river, Sandor looking down at her soft features and sun kissed cheeks, she at his naked torso _.’At least part of me is worth looking at.’  _ He teased himself.. 

 

“Let’s try.” Sandor squatted down in the water and put his hands about two feet apart in the water. 

 

Mimicking him Sansa did the same, though he could tell she felt silly to do so. Then they waited. There had to be silence, otherwise the fish would be scared off. After a time Sandor could see Sansa moving her hands and letting out frustrated little whimpers from her lips. Seeing as his spot was shit and her’s seemed to be promising, Sandor made his way to Sansa a grin on his face. 

 

“This will never work.” She complained, clearly upset that she could not secure the fish herself.

 

“There’s a trick to it.” Sandor said, his voice going lower than he thought it would. Squatting down behind her in the water, the first thing that surprised him was how small she was compared to him. His legs were on the outer sides of her legs, dwarfing them with their length and muscle mass. Her shoulders fit neatly into his chest, as he pressed himself against her. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she nuzzled the side of his face slightly. Her hands were half the size of his own, or at least it seemed so. He put the backs of her palms in his and put them in the water again. 

 

He could feel himself hardening despite the cold water. Her little bum was digging between his legs and it was difficult to fight what came so naturally. “Relax.” He whispered in her ear, feeling her body go rigid. He wasn’t sure if it was from their proximity or because she was eager to catch something. Probably a bit of both for Sandor was doing his best to keep his crotch as far from her as possible.

 

There was doubt he could have stayed there all day, not giving a damn to catch anything if it meant being close to her. Sandor barely knew the girl, hadn’t even spoken to her more than he had this day -- but he felt something for her he couldn’t describe. Sansa’s beauty would have been enough to justify any attraction to her -- but there was more than that. She was a fighter, not afraid of anything, including him. Sandor liked that, it captivated him as a matter of fact. But even then, he knew he could not keep her. Once they had some fish in their bellies and he adjusted to moving again, he would take her back to her family. She belonged in the north, and though he knew it silly to think such ridiculous things, it seemed as though the gods did not want her to leave her home. It was ironic to Sandor that they had made it as far as the edge of her father’s lands, this river dividing Stark and Tully territory. It was as if she was unable to leave her homeland, held there by a force more powerful that either one of them.

 

Her body tensed again and this shook Sandor from his musings. A good sized trout had arrived in their little ambush spot, and she seemed quite keen to catch him. Pressing the backs of her hands with the palms of his, he began to move their hands toward the trout -- knowing that he would have to grip the slippery thing as hard as he could, for he didn’t expect her to find success the first time. It all happened so quickly after that, their hands grabbing the trout, the struggle that ensued which lead them to topple over in the river, but somehow keep the the fish in their grasp. In the comotion, feminine screaming and cold of the water Sandor somehow managed to get them to throw the fish toward shore, only a few feet away. It landed with a thud on the river bank, flopping helplessly around until it slowly breathed its last breaths.

 

“We did it!” She screamed, throwing her arms around Sandor and knocking him down into the river all over again. 

 

She was soaking wet, her tunic now sheer over her chest. It revealed things to Sandor that only made the bottom half of his body even more responsive than before -- but he tried his hardest to contain himself. To his great surprise, it worked.  _ ‘Thank fuck for the little things.’ _ He said to himself ironically while he sat in the cold water with her arms around his neck, her legs straddling his lap. 

 

There was still a smile on her face, though her jubilation had faded. There were staring at each other in the brightness and warmth of the sun, the river flowing lazily around them. The silence between them stretched on longer than what was comfortable, even for Sandor. Not knowing what to do, but very much wanting to fill the space he kissed her. Brought his lips to hers and brought her body in closer to his. Sandor could feel her pert hardened nipples through the thin fabric of her tunic against his hairy chest. Her lips were softer than he could have ever imagined and her tongue warm and slender. She did not fight him, nor was she docile in this moment. She mirrored his lazy explorations of her mouth with her own tongue, gripping his bare arms tightly.

 

Sandor immediately regretted doing this, for he knew it would only make it more difficult to take her back -- make it more painful for him to part from her. He had never lost his head over a woman before, had never felt any more emotion toward them than absolutely necessary -- until she came along. When they did finally break their kiss, Sansa had a dreamy look in her eye, as if she were in love. It made him feel like the luckiest man in the world, and then equally like shit. They were far too different from one another for any sort of affection to really bloom. She was just young, inexperienced and lucky that she had known enough to save his life. He was like a stray dog she had picked up on the King’s Road and nursed to health -- her affection for him was only that. Pity. Not because she knew him well or liked him. Sandor had to be mindful of that, couldn’t allow himself to get caught up in the novelty of having a pretty girl smile at him or even want to kiss him.

 

Abruptly Sandor broke their position. “We’ll need more than one.” He grumbled, standing up in the water and taking his position a bit further away from Sansa. 

 

Sandor chose not to look over at her from where he was. He didn’t want to know if she wore surprise, shock or relief on her face. For as much as he wanted to be closer to the girl, he knew it would matter little now that they would soon part ways. 

 

Two more fish were caught before they called it a day. Sandor showed the her how to clean the fish, something she wasn’t too crazy about, but tried out with his knife all the same. They cooked the fish and ate them, talking about all manner of things. It had never dawned on Sandor that he could actually get along with a girl like this, much less pass several hours and only barely noticing. She was easy to talk to when she wasn’t scared out of her mind, had a good sense of humor and knew a lot about history and folklore. They were no longer captive and captor, ever since he’d passed out by that tree that relationship had gone out the window. Sandor wouldn’t have gone so far to say they were friends, but certainly they were companions of a sort. He had used his physical strength to save her life, she had used her mental strength to save his. In his mind that made them even. It also made him more confident in his decision, for he would not want to be with somebody against his will either.

 

“Tomorrow we’ll break down camp and I’ll take you home.” He said after a long silence had passed between them. It had grown dark in the time they had eaten and cleaned up. 

 

“Do you mean it?” Sansa asked, not with the amount of elation he had expected. “Are you sure you’ll be healthy enough to ride?”

 

Sandor knew taking her back to her family could cost him his own life. There were riders out looking for her, he knew this from his scouts before he had succumbed to the fever. It wouldn’t be as easy as taking her to Winterfell, asking for forgiveness and being on his way. If Sandor was lucky he might get an hour’s lead before Lord Stark’s men ran him down. Maybe. He would have to rely on his own smarts to make it back to his Keep without being killed. 

 

“Now don’t you go worrying about me. You’ve done enough of that. I’ll be fine, I always am.” She looked as though she would try to find another way to counter his words, but she stopped herself. If the Hound didn’t know any better, he would have suspected she was upset about the prospect of them parting ways. He shook this thought from his mind though, for surely he was only reading into her voice, tone and slight pout what he wanted to -- not what was really there. 

 

Settling down on the bear fur and pulling the blanket to him, Sandor was surprised that she slipped out of her trousers, allowing the tunic to cover the tops of her legs, and followed him under the covers. His face must not have hid his surprise for she merely said, “It’s cold at night.” As if it were the most natural thing to say, then settled in between his arm and his side -- as if she belonged here. 

 

At least she had the forethought to turn her back to him and use his shoulder and bicep as a pillow, but that didn’t change the fact that they were incredibly close to one another. Her little bum rubbed across his thigh and her cheek was so soft, it felt like his shoulder was being kissed by silk. Sandor couldn’t help but squeeze her closer to him, knowing that it would only get colder in the night, at took a small whiff of her hair. 

 

A wolf howled in the night and Sandor tensed. “It’s ok.” She said somewhat sleepily to him, as the fire faded. “They’ve been watching over us the last several nights. You have nothing to fear.” 

 

“You’re sure they just weren't waiting for me to die?” He asked her, not so sure he believed Sansa’s assessment of the wildlife. 

 

“The wolf is adornes the sigil of my house and is our protector. We have nothing to fear from them, especially in this wood -- that I’m sure of.” She answered lazily and snuggled herself back into his shoulder. 

 

It hadn’t been the answer he had expected, but they didn’t seem to be getting closer -- and they had not attacked while Sandor was unconscious so that had to mean something. However that didn’t mean Sandor felt at ease sleeping in the rough in this wood. It was said the North was ruled by a force stronger than the Seven, and more vengeful. If somebody had done something worthy of vengeance recently it had been him -- stealing one of their northern daughters away to make his own. So Sandor didn’t know whether to find comfort in Sansa’s words, or to take pause. Yet as the night enveloped them by the river, Sandor knew this could only be the calm before the storm. 

  
  



	10. The Story of the Warrior's Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa stumbles across an old woman in the forest, and finds herself trapped in a battle between two gods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been such a long time since I've updated this....March! Wow! I think I got to a point in the story where I needed to be very careful about what I said next, so as to make sure I set up the ending properly. Now I think I've done it.
> 
> Let's breath a little life into these WIPs shall we?
> 
> Hugs, kisses and thanks for keeping up with this story!

#  Chapter 10: The Story of the Warrior’s Test

##  Sansa

He’d sent her into the forest under the auspices of foraging for berries and tinder. Sansa had offered to help Clegane break down their small camping area, knowing that he still needed a bit of help given the nature of his injuries. He had refused, barely looking at her as he went about his work. Sansa didn’t fully understand why he had changed, his abruptness in great contrast to how he had been the night before. It seemed he was simply putting distance between them, which made her want to be all the more close to him.

 

Sure, she had woken up feeling particularly brave. Brave enough to casually ask the hulking barbarian why he had taken her. It was a question born of curiosity, not of anger. In theory she was far more trouble than she was worth given her station. He would have been better off stealing a pretty kitchen maid, yet he knew he had stolen the daughter of a high lord, knew what the consequences of such an act were. 

 

Now, Clegane was willing to risk his life to take her back to her home, untouched and mostly unharmed. In a funny way it would have been more understandable had he brought to his holdfast in the West and made her his wife in truth. At least then her parents would not be able to petition for her return so easily. Yet not all was what it seemed at first sight with Sandor Clegane, and this only fueled the interest Sansa had in him.

 

She knew she should have been over the moon to go home. But she wasn’t. If truth be told, she had become accustomed to his warmth in the night. Sandor’s huge arms wrapped around her, his light snoring, even the smell of his neck had become comforting things. Sansa could hear her Septa’s voice in her head, warning her of the wiles of men. Of course a man like Sandor Clegane could do anything he wanted to just about anybody, especially a young lady as herself. Yet he had refused this, fought his carnal urges in an internal battle so fierce, Sansa had seen how it tore him apart. Perhaps that was why he had chosen to be so distant, because he feared what he would do to her if they became too close.

 

Either way, her musings had distracted her to the point where she wasn’t even collecting dried sticks anymore. Instead, she was wandering aimlessly around the forest to merely kill time while he collected their things and packed up the horse. That was when she heard a slight commotion in the woods, which totally surprised her. 

 

It took Sansa a moment to come back to reality, but when she did she felt fear course through her veins. Though they were in the North, her homeland, she knew they were far from safe. Marauders, wild animals--there were many things that could do one ill--Sansa knew well enough to be careful. Standing as still as possible, Sansa listed for the sound again.

 

There was a slapping noise and the sound of, what she thought at least, was a donkey braying. “You old stupid thing!” Came a decrepit old woman’s voice from the depths of the forest. 

 

Inhaling deeply Sansa got her bearings, locating where the sounds were coming from and moved tentatively in that direction. She could hear the voice of her Septa in the back of her head telling her to sneak away, not to help a stranger on a trail, off the beaten path while she was alone in the forest. 

 

Pulling her mouth into a thin line, Sansa quickly shook this thought from her head. She had already been taken from her home against her will, it seemed unlikely that lightning would strike twice in this regard. Then her thoughts quickly turned to Old Nan, and what she would have said about such a situation. Sansa’s old Northern wet nurse would have urged Sansa to help the elderly woman in distress, no matter the cost.

 

The old women of the forest were held in high regard amongst Northern peasants. They were often sought out for medicines, advice, and staving off demons from lands or structures. The respect with which they were handled, differed quite a bit from how one might handle elderly ladies in the South. 

 

In the South these old, wise ladies might be called witches, as their magical powers and knowledge of the old ways made them outcasts in the eyes of the Seven. In the eyes of the Old Gods however, these women were the keepers of their history, endowed with the power to both bless and curse anyone who crossed their path. Hence it was important to offer your help to these women, to show them the reverence they deserved.

 

Peeking out from behind a tree, Sansa observed the old woman and her donkey. She was quite the hag if Sansa dare say so. The lady of the forest was hunched over in her black dress, her skin wrinkled from age and weather, a big black wart on her nose. She was almost the exact caricature of what Old Nan had described to Sansa and her siblings as they were young children. The poor donkey was stuck, the wheel of the cart unable to get out of a huge groove that had been washed into the road by heavy rain. It was clear the old lady needed help, the donkey braying in agoney as she smacked it on its haunches with a switch over and over again.

 

Inhaling deeply, Sansa hoped she would not regret stepping out of the safety of the tree behind which she was hiding. “Can I help you, Ama?” She asked, using the Northern word for grandma--a sign of respect.

 

For as old looking and hunched as the woman in front of her was, she turned with a speed that nearly made Sansa jump out of her skin. The old lady’s eyes were dark, one milky and one clear. She wore a strangely satisfied and knowing smile on her face that made Sansa’s hair stand on end. It was as if she knew they would cross paths and had simply been waiting for the opportunity.

 

“Well you’ve come at the right moment, child. I’m no longer as young as I used to be and this old hag,” the old witch pointed at the donkey, though she could have just as easily been talking about herself, “doesn’t want to budge an inch.”

 

“I’d be glad to lend a hand.” Sansa responded, every sense in her body warning her of possible danger. 

 

She walked over to where they pair were, then took a closer look at the groove in the road. It wasn’t hard to see how the wheel was stuck with the mud caked all around it. The wet road was almost like plaster, sticky and keeping the wheel in place.  _ A few leaves and some wood under the wheel should do it _ , Sansa realized. She had seen her brothers and father do this once before as they had taken a small trip to the Riverlands, so she felt confident she could help.

 

Quickly Sansa took some large dry leaves from the forest floor and placed them over the mud. Then she took some smaller kindling from what she had been collecting and began to place the tiny bits of wood under the wheel and past the leaves and mud, out of the groove. 

 

Walking over to the donkey, Sansa took its reigns and began to urge the tired animal to take another step forward. After a bit of braying and a few strong tugs, she was able to get the poor thing moving. Once the wooden wheel caught some traction it came out of the groove, Sansa made sure to walk the donkey, and its cart, to a dry part of the dirt road. 

 

Pleased with herself, Sansa wanted nothing more than to get out of there. She had done her part--according to folklore--and helped the elderly woman stranded in the forest. That by no means meant she was keen to stay and get pulled into an old witch’s trickery. Turning back to the lady, Sansa hoped she could excuse herself swiftly. The stare of the old lady was such an odd one that it made her feel uncomfortable just to exist there. 

 

With a shiver Sansa spoke, “All done, Ama. I’d best be getting on my way. I’m sure my mother will be looking for me.” A white lie, but hopefully one that would get her out of this situation faster.

 

At this the old lady cracked a wry smile, as if she knew something Sansa did not. “But I must reward you for your efforts, girl. Nothing in this life comes for free, and if it does then it has no value. And your deeds have a value, child.” There was a dark tone to the old witch’s words, it made Sansa’s urge to flee even stronger. She was reluctant to walk over to the old lady, but did so anyway out of politeness.

 

“Let me guess what you’d like in return,” The Lady of the Woods said, her eyes narrowing. “Ahh yes a story.”

 

“I’ve heard them all, Ama, really.” Sansa was trying to make a smooth exit, but the old lady was having nothing of it.

 

“Come now girl, come closer.” The old gran called to Sansa. “My old eyes can’t see your beauty from this far. Come, child.” This moment reminded her of all those times her mother had told her not to talk to strangers -- it reminded her of all the times she had been told never to venture into the forest alone. However this lady was old, and Sansa’s logical mind kept telling her that she could do her no harm. 

 

She took a few steps closer. 

 

The witch suddenly grabbed her by the arm with surprising strength, making Sansa nearly jump out of her skin. A smile crept across the hag’s face, her lack of teeth showing. The old gran sniffed the air in a strange way that made Sansa wonder what she was going to do next. The leaves of the trees moved and rustled above them, though there was no wind. 

 

Suddenly the old gran looked at Sansa with her cloudy eye and her good eye, then spoke. “A child of the North and also a child of the South. So many stories and so many gods. A good girl like you must know them all.” Sansa swallowed hard, but didn’t pull away. “But tell me, child, have you ever heard the story of the Warrior’s Test?”

 

Sansa had never heard a story by that name before, nor could she have imagined passing it up. She knew every story of gods and knights, many of them by heart. She was intrigued despite her fear, so she waited for the old woman to speak.

 

Her lack of response only made the old lady smile more. “I didn’t think so,” she said, a toothless grin on her face. “Take a seat child, and I’ll tell it to you.”

 

The old lady motioned somewhere behind Sansa on the right and she looked over. There was a stump that she had not noticed before, just the right height for her to sit on. There was also another, a little shorter that looked to suit the stature of the old lady with her. Something wasn’t right, she felt it in her gut, but the last thing she needed to do was panic. Remembering her manners, Sansa went to the stump and sat down, doing her best to both be polite and keep her wits about her.

 

“It’s an old story,” the hag began, hobbling over and taking a seat herself, “one my mother told me many many years ago.” There was an edge to her voice that made Sansa both curious and nervous at the same time. As usual though, curiosity won out.

 

Settling down on the stump and pulling out a pipe, the old lady lit it then began to tell her tale. “When the First Men came to this land, there were only the Old Gods. From North to South, East to West, they were the only deities and they ruled over the trees in the forest, the animals that ran freely and Man when he set foot here. As any child of the North should know, the Old Gods are demanding gods. Do you know why, my dear?”

 

A ripple of fear went through Sansa, she didn’t like where this was going. She felt uncomfortable to her core. “No.” She answered, making sure her voice did not reveal the panic slowly rising in her chest. 

 

The old hag scoffed at her answer. “They want blood, child. Nothing else tastes so sweet to them, nothing else shows them more loyalty than blood, and nothing else will appease them other than that. An eye for an eye, death for life. They are hard gods, but they are fair gods. Nowadays young people have no idea how to show proper devotion, much less ask for their help.” The old woman’s voice lingered a moment, as if she wanted to say something more, then thought better of herself.

 

Picking back up on the story, the hag continued. “So, the Old Gods were content to rule Man on this island, and did so for eight thousand years. Man would sacrifice their first kill, first crops, sometimes even their first born to the Old Gods, and in return they answered Man’s prayers. Times were difficult then, and without their help our ancestors would have never made it in this harsh place.”

 

Some part of Sansa didn’t doubt that in the least. The winters were cold and often brought people to the brink of death. Food was scarce and shelter even more so. She could only have imagined with it had been like being at the mercy of the elements, her forefathers fighting for survival against the greatest of odds to live in the North in particular.

 

“But times changed, child, as they often do. While the First Men came to Westeros and accepted the Old Gods as they were, the Andals were different. When they came to this place, they brought the Seven with them--and with that they would change everything.” 

 

Sansa cocked her head to the side. While she knew this history, she had never considered the theological side of it so to say. 

 

“A war would start between the Old Gods and the Seven, one that still rages to this day,” the old lady was cryptic as she spoke, alluding to more. She puffed her pipe as if waiting to be questioned.

 

“But how come, Ama? I thought the gods lived in harmony with one another.” That was what Sansa had always been told anyway, that one could worship either the Old Gods or the New, even both if they were so inclined. That was what she had always done anyway, pay heed to the gods of her mother and her father.

 

The old witch barked a bitter disparaging laugh, “Souls my dear! They want souls and devotion. But they can only do that, if you believe. If you pray to them, sacrifice for them, that’s the true elixir of life for a god. And therein lies the difficulty.” The old woman’s voice lingered on the word difficulty for a moment, letting it fill the air between them before she continued. 

 

“It’s very easy to follow the Seven, child. All they need is a little prayer in the Sept, a small sacrifice of money or food and they will do your bidding. Their laxness on their flock pulled many believers away from the Old Gods, bringing them over to the New.” There was a disgusted tone to the old lady’s words, as if she had a bad taste in her mouth.

 

“But of course, girl, the New Gods are fickle things, bringing with them their own bickering and in fighting. While the Old Gods keep their quarrels to themselves, the Seven see it fit to play them out amongst us mortals. It is this that brings us to our story.” When the old woman looked at Sansa, it was as if she were looking through her. Sansa did not know all the powers an old witch such as this had, only that she should be careful not to upset her.

 

The old witch cleared her throat. “For the Maiden loved her uncle, the Stranger, so deeply, that she was willing to give up her life amongst her parents and siblings in the sky to live with him in the Underworld. He’s an ugly old thing, you see--but not without his own merits,” the old lady laughed at this, clearly finding some sort of kinship with the Stranger on the old and ugly parts.

 

“So she ran away with him, took him by the arm and allowed herself to be led into the dark reaches of his realm, to help him look after the Seven Hells.” The old witch stopped a moment, puffed on her pipe thoughtfully, then gave a little aside. “The Stranger is often misunderstood, you see. Though he may wear the many grotesque faces of death, he has a compassion for all things be it dead or alive. It’s this understanding of the human condition, that drew the Maiden to him. Though not many know that.”

 

Sansa thought on this a moment. Of all the Gods the Stranger was the least worshiped and the most mysterious. If anything he often took on an evil character in the stories and songs of the Seven, because death was to be feared, not loved or cherished. Death stole from decent folk, took people before their time. She pondered what it might feel like to be misunderstood your entire existence, to seek nothing more than a kind word and another with love in their hearts for you. To be understood and accepted would be a great gift, even for a god.

 

“It’s the making of a love story really. Beauty and the beast as it were.” The old lady interrupted Sansa’s thoughts. “However, it would always be a love unconsummated. Should the Stranger take his niece’s maidenhood, it would render her mortal--something the Maiden’s parents could not imagine. So they sought to save her from her own flesh and blood, to bring her back to the gilded cage they had built for her. For who could love a woman such as the Maiden, without indeed desiring the physical too? Bollix if you ask me.” 

 

Sansa leaned in closer as the woman spoke, hanging on every word. There was a familiarity to this story, the theme of the Maiden and the Stranger. Yet Sansa had never heard this take.

 

“The Father and the Mother sent her brother, the Warrior, to take the Maiden back by force if necessary. Both brave and foolish, he charged down into the Underworld, leaving nothing in his wake but more death and destruction. Once alone, with only the three of them, the Maiden tried to explain that they were in love, and the Stranger had no intention of taking her virginity.” The old lady considered something a quick moment, then went back to her story.

 

“The Maiden pleaded with her brother. Telling him it had been her choice, and that she would remain until the end of time as pure as the freshly fallen snow. But the Warrior paid her no heed. The lecherous god that he was, the Warrior could not imagine that a man could live their life with one as fair as his sister and remain celebate. Besides, he had tasted blood and wanted more.” 

 

Sansa felt an overwhelming rush of sadness fill her. It would be an even greater show of love to keep her a god, for the Stranger to commit in such a way to her protection. To show her he valued who she was and what she stood for. It angered her that the Warrior could not see that, much less the Father or the Mother.

 

“So he met the Stranger in battle,” the hag continued, “though the god of death fought gallantly, he was no match for his nephew, whose prowess in the battle field is fabled.” Sansa couldn’t help but find anger there, the idea that the Maiden had found true love only to have it ripped from her by a vengeful, jealous brother.

 

“The Warrior beat the Stranger within an inch of his life. He left the god unconscious and at his mercy. It was not until the Maiden came between them, her beautiful blue eyes filled with fear and defeat, did she agree to come back with her brother. The Warrior had his own conditions of course, as harsh as the god himself. Reluctantly, the Maiden promised she would never see or speak to the Stranger again, never even utter his name. In return her brother would let him live.” The old lady sighed, as if she too felt a deep sadness for the Stranger. 

 

“The Maiden was taken by her brother back to their parents. Snatched from the arms of her love, ripping her from the only man who had ever truly loved her. She was even allowed to say goodbye. And with time, this fed the Maiden’s rage.” At this the old lady’s voice changed, as if this was where the story would get truly interesting.

 

“The Maiden’s rage?” Sansa asked, not sure she had heard the the witch correctly. She had heard many stories, but none of them spoke of the Maiden as anything other than loving and pure. Rage was never associated with this deity. “Is this not a different telling of the Maiden’s Resilience?”

 

“Ha!” The old lady barked an almost vicious laugh. “Resilience and strength in the face of insurmountable odds leads us to do things, child. To commit acts out of our character, to allow feelings to override what we deem logical or moral.” There was a long pause then, and Sansa could feel a weight in the air. 

 

“What drove the Maiden to her next act was not resilience, silly girl, but rage.” The old hag cackled then, a dark, ominous type of cackle. “There is nothing more dangerous than a woman scorned. When she feels she has nothing else to lose.” Lingering a moment on those words, the old woman continued. “In her rage, the Maiden fled to the forest, found an old heart tree and begged on her knees for the Old Gods to help her.”

 

Goosebumps raised on Sansa’s skin at these words. She thought of the pain and desperation of the Maiden, and the difficulty of going to her rivals in need of help. It seemed not even a god had control over their own destiny. Sansa felt a pang of sadness for the deity and somehow a sense of sisterhood as well. 

 

“They hatched a plan you see. They made an unbreakable pact.” The witch continued her voice deepening, “For the Maiden desired one thing above all others, that her brother understand the meaning of love.” 

 

Sansa was flabbergasted, such a story she had never heard in her life. The Old Gods and the Seven were separated, never were there stories of them crossing over. The very thought was blasphemous. 

 

The old lady continued, “The Maiden wanted that, instead of using his sword to destroy love, that he use it for love’s protection. The Warrior had destroyed so many things in this world, you see. Violence, war, pain, and suffering are part of the Warrior’s creed, so diametrically opposed to his sister. So very different from her indeed.”

 

“What kind of a plan, Ama?” Sansa asked. 

 

“A devious one of course.” The woman of the forest smirked, “The Warrior is a lecherous god with a taste for his sister’s flock. They had often squabbled about his plunder of her maidens, but as he could not exercise his desires on his sister directly, he chose to pluck from her flock anyway. This always lead to conflict between them. The Warrior is many things, but he is not gentle.”

 

Sansa felt herself turning flush with rage, to steal from the Maiden’s flock with such flagrant disregard should almost certainly be cause for punishment. 

 

“The Old Gods and the Maiden agreed it would be best to lure the Warrior with one of her flock. She promised to create a maiden, in her own image. A maiden so beautiful that her brother would not be able to resist. The Old Gods promised to keep her hidden in the North, away from the Warrior’s roaming eye until she reached the appropriate age.” The old lady smirked now, as she knew where the story would take its turns.

 

“It was all thought out so well. You see the gods carry out their squabbles most often though us mortals, it makes it easier that way. But I’ve told you that already.” The old woman grinned a moment. 

 

“They often take the form of Man so that they may play out their guilty pleasures. The Warrior was no exception.” Sansa had a strange sense that she knew where this was going. The tone of the old story teller, mixed with the rustle of the trees gave Sansa a strange sense of dejavu that she couldn’t quite point her finger on.  

 

“So the Maiden promised to pick a southern invader when the time came. One who embodied her brother physically, playing to the god’s vanity. She knew he would agree to anything in order to have this maiden for himself. What she did not realize though, was that she would choose a mortal that not only embodied her dear brother, but the Stranger as well.” The hag smiled, her toothless grin releasing the smoke from her mouth.

 

Sansa was intrigued, she leaned forward to listen more closely. “Man has this beautiful thing called free will, child. While the gods may create us, they cannot fully control us--no matter whether they take our form or not.” The old lady let that bit of information hang in the air.

 

“This mortal the Maiden would choose, would not neither young, nor fair of face. He too would have seen the many faces of death in his lifetime, given his size and strength. This southern invader would be the perfect embodiment of her brother’s form, but he would not be weak in the face of her brother’s control. The Maiden would pick a man to stand up to her brother, as her love had done before. For you see, child, she wanted her brother to have a real fight.” 

 

All the hairs on Sansa’s neck stood on end, everything this woman of the forest said was so strangely familiar, it was as if she was telling Sansa’s own story. Her mind went to Sandor, to his eyes, to his struggles and it made her blood run cold.

 

“Once within this mortal form, it was agreed upon that the Warrior would be given a choice. To fight for love, or to allow it to be destroyed. Just how though, would be left up to the Old Gods. That was their one desire, the thing they wanted in kind.” Another toothless grin spread across the old woman’s face.

 

“And what happened? Did he fight for love as she had hoped?” Sansa needed to know, she must know how the story ended. 

 

A mirthless chuckle escaped the old woman’s lips, “That part of the story, dear girl, has sadly been lost with the ages. Nobody knows.” With this the old lady crossed her arms and puffed away at her pipe as if lost in thought. 

 

A silence overtook them, there was not a sound of an animal nor the movement of branches to be heard in the depths of the forest. It was eerily still.

 

“There was, however, something to be said about this young maid that would draw the lustful desire of the Warrior. This young woman who would be so irresistible to him that she would test his resolve before gods and men.” This drew Sansa’s attention immediately back to the old woman. 

 

“I remember my mother spending a good amount of time describing her in perfect details. She was particular you see, the Maiden in her true human form.”

 

Sansa braced herself for what she felt would be coming.

 

“She would be fair, her skin the color of the winter snow of her northern homeland. Her eyes would be the darkest blue, sparkling like sapphires even in the night. This maid would be slender and tall with hair the color of molten copper…”

 

At this Sansa audibly gasped and jerked back from the old lady.  _ It couldn’t be, it can’t be… _ , she prayed with every fiber of her being for it to not be true.

 

“What’s the matter, child?” The witch’s voice got suddenly deep, “What’s gotten you so frightened?”

 

Standing abruptly from her seat Sansa made a bid to excuse herself. “It’s been such a great story, Ama. But I--uh-- should really get going. My mother will be missing me and I…”

 

Before she could blink, the old lady sprung to her feet and grabbed both of Sansa’s arms with such force it made her scream.“But I’m not done yet!” The witch cursed through gritted teeth.

 

Sansa tried to jerk away, but the old lady held her tightly, drawing her even closer than before. “They want blood, girl. They won’t be satisfied until the get it.”

 

“Blood? Who?” Sansa cringed, turning her face away from the hag’s and doing her best to keep her tears at bay.

 

“The Old Gods, child. Your blood for his, his for yours otherwise the story will remain unfinished! Things have been set into motion that cannot be undone.” With that the old lady drew Sansa closer and licked the side of her face. “Oh you are indeed the sweetest maiden to ever walk these lands.” Her voice was suddenly deep as if it were not her own. Sansa took this moment to wrench her arms free and turned to run.

 

The old woman’s voice boomed with authority, holding Sansa in her place, though she dared not look behind her. “He will die for you tonight. There will be blood, there must be death! If you do this right, if you love him, then there will be order once again in this world.” The woman was shouting at Sansa in a sort of desperation that she had never heard before. Then she quieted, and her voice changed into something deep and scary, not quite a man’s voice but certainly not her own. “Don’t disappoint us now.” 

 

Sansa was frozen in place, tears streaming down her face and whimpering in fear. She wanted nothing more than to leave this place, find Sandor and leave. Yet something was keeping her there.

 

“Now run to him, child! Run! I said run!” The old lady’s booming voice seemed to follow Sansa as she took off into the depths of the forest. There was no wind, yet the leaves and branches shook violently above her as she sprinted away.

 

Sansa ran through the forest not caring how her clothing caught on the branches while she hurriedly pushed them aside. Tears pouring down her face, her heart racing, she was beside herself with fear. Yet the bigger question still loomed,  _ Had the old woman spoken the truth? _


End file.
